Coping Mechanisms
by Karen Rhine
Summary: It's been close to a year since John had lost Sherlock to suicide. Completely unaware that the suicide was, in fact, not a suicide at all, he attempts to move on with his life. When Sherlock eventually reveals himself to John, will either of them be able to go back to the way they were before? Will they even want to try?
1. Chapter 1

"Lestrade called me today," John Watson said softly, legs curled up under him. "He has a case. Asked if I could come take a look."

The doctor sighed, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. The grass was slightly damp under him, but he didn't notice. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone he sat next to.

"I didn't know what to say. Still don't, honestly. Told him I could try my hand at it, but... Damnit, I don't know what they're expecting. I'm not you, after all."

He glanced over his shoulder at the stone he continued to lean against. Black marble, with the name 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' on the front of it. The irrational part of his mind waited for a response. Waited to hear that deep voice say something sarcastic about his lack of deduction skills. Of course, there was not a response. There never was.

John had been coming to the gravesite every two or three days for the past six months since that horrific day. Some days, like today, he would carry on a one-sided conversation. Usually about his day, as if they were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. Not that he got many responses back then either. He called it his coping mechanism - it was the only way to get Mrs. Hudson off his back sometimes.

Other days, he would sit there with his knees pulled up to his chest and just cry. He would cry so hard his entire body would shake. He'd practically cry himself dry, until his throat went painfully sore from the sobs that wracked his body. And lastly, more rare than the others, he would just sit there in silence. He'd stare down at his hands, stare at the small mound that had become overgrown with grass, which held underneath it the greatest detective in the world. His best friend.

Today was one of the better visits. He felt to be in a chatty mood. He moved on to talk about the flat, Mrs. Hudson (who kept trying to set him up on blind dates, bless her, the most recent being a really sweet girl named Mary), and even the occasional, awkward encounter with Mycroft Holmes. It soothed his mind, briefly, to carry on a normal conversation. As normal as conversation could be talking to the gravestone of a dead man, anyway. John never claimed to be sane, not anymore.

How much time had passed, he wasn't sure. He always shut his phone off when he came here. The sun was beginning to set, however, which was his cue that he should probably leave. Carefully, he forced himself to his feet, using the headstone to steady himself as he stretched his legs and reached for his sleek black cane. He ran his fingers along the engraving of the letters of 'SHERLOCK' affectionately, tears blurring his vision yet not falling, as he said goodbye, before limping back to his car to set off for home.

A set of piercing blue eyes watched from a distance as the man got carefully into his vehicle and drove away. A thin frown had formed on the lips of said individual who happened to be none other than the late Sherlock Holmes himself. Leaning against a tree, his coat collar flipped up around his neck, he crossed his arms at what he had just witnessed.

John's limp had returned. Leaning against the tree he had concealed himself behind, Sherlock brought his hands together, fingers pressed against his lips. He facial expression gave away nothing, but that observation pained him in ways he couldn't quite explain. He had fixed that limp. It was all mental. Why on Earth was it back?

Of course it had to be his mental state now, his grieving. It had to be his loneliness. The pain Sherlock felt got heavier. John still thought him dead, and so his limp returned. He hated this. He was tired of hiding, tired of having to be dead. He missed John. He missed his violin. As much as he hated to admit, if it weren't for Mycroft giving him cases in secret, he would be going insane. At least he was at an advantage, his brother knowing he was alive. If he didn't have anything to deduce, it would really be worse than death. Not that he would ever show thanks to Mycroft. He'd never hear the end of it.

In the pocket of his coat, he felt a buzz. He arched an eyebrow and pulled out his phone, curious who would text him. Mycroft usually called here recently...

_'Anderson is a bloody twat. -JW'_

Sherlock smirked. John's other coping mechanism had been to continue texting his phone. He didn't do it as often as he went to his grave, but still. He was actually rather glad he would.

_'Always denies fowl play. Why Lestrade keeps him employed is beyond me. -JW'_

Sherlock's thumb hovered over his phone. He always wanted to text him back. Tell him he was alive. But he knew that was an unwise decision. It was still too dangerous to reveal himself. But he was getting closer. They just needed to take care of one more thing ...

He shut off his phone and dropped it back in the pocket, leaving the cemetery to get back to Molly's. Mycroft was bound to be there by now, and they had work to do.

* * *

"John..."

"No. No, don't make me. Please."

"John, you have to."

"No!"

"DO IT JOHN!"

The next thing he knew, John Watson saw himself shoving Sherlock Holmes off the roof of the building, where he fell to his death. Again.

* * *

John woke up screaming. He was covered in sweat and gasping like he had just run a marathon. Eyes wide, he looked around frantically, only to find himself in the flat, in his bed. For a split second he calmed down, and then he darted out of bed, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Without even turning the light on, he collapsed in front of the toilet and started retching.

After a few minutes, he had properly evacuated any remainder of dinner out of his stomach. He wiped his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, his whole body shaking. He rested his forehead on the cold porcelain and ran a shaky hand through his hair.

This was not the first time he'd had that nightmare. Nor was it the first nightmare that had that theme to it. No matter the setting, even though he found himself trying everything, John continued to kill Sherlock over and over again. Tonight had been real bad, though. He hadn't had a nightmare that had invoked that kind of bodily reaction since his minor case of PTSD when he had first got home from Afghanistan.

Gripping the side of the toilet, he shut his eyes tight, just trying to stop the spinning. He stayed like that for a good half hour until he was satisfied nothing else was going to come up. Then, he moved slowly to make sure his legs didn't give out from under him, and he made his way to the sink to brush his teeth and splash cold water on his face. Leaning against the counter, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked god-awful. He was as white as a sheet and his face had started to thin out over the past two months or so. His appetite was practically non-existent some days. He always tried to force himself to eat something, of course. He rarely finished a complete meal though, and found himself on multiple occasions picking at whatever was sitting in front of him. Ironic that he was now becoming more and more guilty of the same thing he used to constantly berate Sherlock about.

After a few deep breaths and another splash of water to his face, he felt confident his legs would let him get back to bed. He walked out into the hallway, but paused, staring at the closed door next to him. Sherlock's room... His heart clenched. He tightened his hands into fists, gathering courage, and walked into his bedroom.

A lot of things were left untouched. John hadn't wanted to get rid of anything. After a moment of standing in the doorway, he walked over and slid into Sherlock's bed, pulling all the covers over him and grabbing the pillow tightly. He took a deep breath - it still smelled like him. It wasn't strong, but it was there. Tears formed in his eyes and slid silently down his cheeks. He felt ridiculous, like a grieving widow. It sounded goofy, acting this way over a flat mate... John had come to realize though that perhaps he _was_ a grieving widow. Sherlock jumping, Sherlock being gone... He was in love with him. He'd had suspicions about his feelings for a while, but that horrific day erased any doubt.

It was too late, though. It didn't matter. And so he lay there, pretending the warmth surrounding him was the man he was madly and painfully in love with, and eventually fell asleep once more.


	2. Chapter 2

_I wanted to say thanks to all the kind reviews so far! It makes me happy that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing. I'm not sure how long of a story this will be just yet, but I hope you all hang along for the ride! ^_^_

* * *

John awoke with a groan as his phone went off next to him. He had no earthly idea who was calling, but he immediately wanted to cause them bodily harm. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get up, before grabbing the phone forcefully.

"Hello?" he answered, unable to keep the extreme irritation out of his voice. Mixed with the grogginess of just waking up, it was not the most flattering of noises.

"John? Were you asleep?" The voice on the other end sounded shocked. John blinked, the sleepy haze lifting some. Why was it so hard to believe?

"Yes, Greg, I was," he answered. "Why?"

"John... It's almost 2 in the afternoon."

That was the splash of cold water he needed. He practically jumped out of bed, eyes wide.

"Bloody hell!" he groaned, stumbling out of the bedroom. "I can't believe I slept so late. Damnit."

Lestrade was quiet for a moment more while John came down from his pissy mood some. When he decided he was more level-headed, he spoke.

"Well, if it's not too much trouble, I could use you today," he said. John could hear sirens in the background.

"Crime scene?"

"Yes. Can you come 'round?"

"Of course. Give me twenty minutes and I'll be off. Text me the address."

Hanging up, he went back into his room to put on clothes. He was relieved, to be honest. He hoped that this would focus his thoughts away from ... Well. A lump formed in his throat. He felt dumb. How would a case keep him from such thoughts? However, he'd already agreed, and he didn't want to disappoint Lestrade. They were friends, after all.

He bid Mrs. Hudson farewell for the day when he saw her in the hall, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He stepped out onto Baker St and hailed a cab, trying to get himself in the right mind set for what he was about to walk in to.

* * *

_'St Barts. Be there in ten. New development. -MH'_

Sherlock stared at his phone, his chest feeling tight. He prayed this was their ticket. Grabbing his scarf off the back of the chair he was sitting in, he stormed off quick, coat billowing out behind him.

* * *

John knelt under the police tape, hands stuffed in his pockets, and into the large living room. No one would meet his eyes. He felt lead drop in the pit of his stomach. What a great way to greet him to the scene. As if it wasn't hard enough already.

He nodded to Donovan, who nodded back with a small, sad smile. He chose to ignore this, walking over to Lestrade, who looked up at him from Anderson, who was kneeling in front of the body.

"Ah, John. Glad you could make it."

"I just hope I'll be of some use," he responded, shaking the man's extended hand. He looked down at Anderson, and the dead woman laying next to him. "So. What's going on?"

"Suicide," Anderson said, standing up. "Dunno why he called you, really."

John felt dumb-founded. For a split second he thought the same thing.

"Greg?" he asked suspiciously. Lestrade shook his head, exasperated.

"Shut up Anderson. John, would you please take a look at her? See if anything sticks out?"

John sighed, but knelt down carefully, gripping his cane to keep him steady. He wasn't aware of Lestrade's eyes staring right at it. He peered down, pulled on gloves that had been handed to him, and began to examine her.

"Bruising along the neck..." he muttered. Then, raising his voice slightly, "You found her like this?"

"No," Anderson answered, taking his gloves off. "She hanged herself, over in the corner."

John glanced, seeing the over-turned chair and the rope lying next to it. His vision went hot white.

"You already moved the body?!" he snapped. "What the actual hell? You couldn't wait ten minutes? Sherlock would throw a fi-"

He went silent. The words finally registered in his mind. The room was dead quiet, everyone staring at him now. Lestrade had pain behind his eyes. John's vision blurred. He clenched his fists tight, taking a deep breath, and turned his attention back to the dead body.

"She was murdered," he said softly, his voice cracking. "The marks from the rope were all post-mortem. The, uh- The bruising is more consistent with a pair of hands. It's uneven, and wider."

He took the woman's hand and peered at it carefully, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve. He wouldn't cry. Not in public. Not at a crime scene.

"There's dried blood under her fingernails. Not at lot, but it's there. She put up a fight. I guarantee the blood is the killer's"

Grasping his cane tighter than ever, he stood slowly. He looked Lestrade in the eyes now, and knew he could see the pain in his own.

"By the state of her, it's likely she was raped beforehand. Be sure to check for foreign bodily fluids... Should match the DNA from that blood."

And with that, he left. He limped out of the room, eyes straight ahead as if he had blinders on. He didn't want to see any more sympathetic faces staring at him. He walked out into the crisp day, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. A shaky sigh left his lips and he looked up, staring at the blue sky. How did he think he was ready for all this? Very clearly, he wasn't.

He jumped as a hand grasped his shoulder. He turned back to see Lestrade and relaxed a bit, the other man responded with a reassuring squeeze.

"What are you up to the rest of the day?" he asked. John grimaced.

"Nothing."

"Why don't we go to the pub, have a few beers. I need to wrap things up here, but I'd be free by dinner."

They were quiet for a second as John thought. It has been... He couldn't honestly remember the last time him and Greg hung out as mates. Finally, he nodded.

"Sounds great. Get a hold of me when you get done, yeah?"

"Definitely."

John hailed the cab again, and endured the long ride back to 221B in silence, and sorrow.

* * *

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but remained motionless otherwise, as his phone went off next to him. He was busily staring into a microscope, perched on his usual chair in Molly's lab. He heard her shuffling along around him.

"Anything?" she asked, now standing next to him. He didn't respond. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied the specimen, seeing everything and yet nothing at all. It was bloody infuriating. He heard the woman next to him sigh. Before she could move, his phone lit up again. Molly found herself staring at it.

"Sherlock..." she muttered, voice soft, serious. Sad. This piqued his attention just enough, and he glanced up.

"Hmm?"

Molly looked spooked. Eyes teary. Pupils dilated. Brow creased. Heartbeat increased dramatically. Her eyes were locked on his phone. He sighed and rolled his eyes, reaching over and plucking it off the table with his nimble fingers. He had two messages waiting for him.

_'Missed a crime scene today. Murder disguised as suicide. -JW'_

_'You'd have gone mental were you here, the way they went about everything. -JW'_

He stared at the words for a moment, then shut it off and turned his attention back to the microscope. He said nothing, even though he knew Molly was staring at him. She wanted to talk. It was stupid. Talking was pointless, and would do nothing to help them.

"Sherlock... How long has he been doing this?" Her voice wavered, as if she was about to cry. His chest heaved. Of course she asked. As much as he willed it, he could not prevent her from asking dumb questions. Maybe one day he'd master that skill, and then he'd finally be at peace.

"5 months. Every other day. Sometimes every day in a row, when he's particularly down."

"Sherlock, do you not realize how fragile he is? Doing this, he must be heartbroken."

He didn't respond. He didn't want to. He had no desire to waste valuable thought process on this meaningless conversation. Molly finally gave up and walked out of the room. After a moment, he leaned back and picked up his phone again. Opening his messages again, he just stared at the words. His face went soft as he scanned back through the one-sided conversation John refused to stop having. It felt so odd. For all he knew, he was dead. It was pointless to send texts to a dead man. He barely acknowledged his brother as he walked in the room, umbrella in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. Mycroft cleared his throat, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, the phone vibrated in his hand.

_'It's not the same. Being there without you. It's haunting. It's ... I don't know. -JW'_

Mycroft dropped the papers and folders down next to him and pulled a stool over. He laced his fingers together and watched his younger brother with that knowing gaze that was maddening to Sherlock.

"And so the good doctor continues to reach out to his deceased best friend," he mused. Sherlock snorted. Of course Mycroft knew about the texts. He knew everything about people, it seemed. His brother had eyes and ears everywhere. It normally annoyed him, but in this case, it had been rather useful in a few different aspects over the past year. He'd never tell Mycroft, but he was grateful to have a powerful brother for once.

"How is he?" he asked, knowing Mycroft knew exactly what he was asking. He still didn't look up from his phone, even after it dimmed from inactivity.

"About the same," Mycroft said. "He went to help the Yard with a case, wasn't there long. I believe him and the Inspector are going out later this evening, socially."

"What about his..."

"Physical or mental?" Mycroft interrupted. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this question, and his brother just smiled. "He continues to take his cane everywhere. The limp is a tad worse than when you first met, all that time ago. As for his mind... It is much the same."

Meaning John was still miserable. Something tightened inside his chest. Even with this woman in his life, this Mary that Mycroft had told him about two months ago, he was still miserable. As much as he automatically disliked this woman, Sherlock had hoped her presence would've had a positive affect on him. Apparently not. Sighing, he finally set his phone down and focused his attention on what Mycroft had brought.

"This is the development you spoke of," he said (not asked, he never asked, he never had to).

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded. "The gentleman inside that folder is who I believe to be the last major player James Moriarty placed on the board, in case of his death. We have records of him being involved in many intricate crimes over the past year and a half that link him to the others, however, not the evidence to do something about it."

"And you can't just make him mysteriously disappear? Is your power slipping, Mycroft?"

"Not at all," the older man said tensely. "But, as you well know, there are some things above my head - as rare as they may be. There's a reason Moriarty made this his right-hand man. He's a slippery bastard. The information in here, which is highly classified by the way, is the most we've ever been able to get. From here, I've no doubt your mind can deduce the rest of what we need. If we're lucky, we'll have him by the week's end."

"The week's end?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. "Please, Mycroft. I'll have him in less than three days."

Mycroft stood, grabbing his umbrella and watching his brother for a minute longer.

"Yes, I thought you might say something along those lines. Just be careful, little brother. If this ends with your true death, I don't see how this will improve Dr. Watson's situation. I'll be in touch."

And with that, he was gone. Sherlock opened the top folder and began skimming through the words and images contained within, already deep within his mind palace. This would be all he needed to straighten everything out. Then, he could go home. Things could go back to normal, and for once, he found himself yearning for normal.

* * *

John slid himself into a smaller booth near the window of the pub and tried to relax. He didn't mean to beat Lestrade here, but he doubted he would have to wait too long. He clasped his hands together in front of him, on the table, and turned his attention to whatever football game was up on the telly. There were a couple of guys over at the bar, clearly already wasted, screaming in triumph as their team nailed a goal. These were the types that inevitably ended up in surgery for him to patch up. He covered his mouth and coughed slightly to try and avoid laughing out loud.

His attention went to the door as Lestrade walked in, glancing around. John held up a hand to flag him down. He smiled, went over to the bar, then came and sat down next to him with two beers in hand. He slid one of the across the table. John took it, nodding in thanks, and took a big drink. It was nice and cold on his raw throat (he'd sat on the couch in the flat and cried for goodness knows how long when he got home earlier).

"So how are you holding up?" Lestrade finally asked after taking a couple of drinks from his own beer. John shrugged, hesitant to answer at first.

"I don't know, Greg," he settled on. It was an honest answer, just not a complete answer. He could tell by the looks he was getting that Lestrade knew that, but luckily he didn't push it.

"How's that new girl you've been seeing? Mary was her name, yeah?" John nodded.

"Yeah. She's real nice, and absolutely gorgeous. We've gone out a handful of times. She definitely seems interested, and we text on and off."

"But?" Damn, it was like the man was a mind reader.

"But... I don't know. I like her. I just... I don't find myself having any desire to pursue a serious relationship. I'm worried about leading her on."

"John," Greg sighed. "He would want you to be happy, you know. It's hard without him here, I know. I can only imagine how it is for you, you two were so close. But you shouldn't sacrifice happiness to continuously mourn him."

They were silent. John couldn't find words. He knew Greg was right, he did. And he had tried. He just couldn't... He couldn't get past all of it. Sure, he had good days, but they were far outnumbered by the bad. His therapist was no help. He didn't know what to do. He downed the rest of his beer and sighed. Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look before reaching over and patting his hand.

"Sorry, John. I just worry about you. Let's not talk about it again tonight. I wanted to help you get your mind off things. Let me to grab us another round, and see what we can get up to tonight."

"Thanks Greg. That sounds great." John smiled, and with that, his friend was off to get more to drink. He was glad they were doing this. He needed this.

* * *

"Come on John, we're almost there."

Greg Lestrade had a tight grip on John's arm as he tried steering him up the stairs towards his flat. He was right sloshed. 5 beers and two shots later, he could barely walk, and Greg rode with him in the taxi to make sure he'd get home safely. John tried staying quiet so he wouldn't wake Mrs. Hudson, but to no avail as he stumbled and fell on the stairs. He burst out laughing as he was pulled back up on his feet.

Finally, they made it inside, and he somehow made it over to the couch without another incident. He slumped down with a groan, and Greg knelt down beside him.

"You want me to get you some tea before I go home?" he offered.

Tea. Tea sounded nice. John managed a nod, which is all he needed. He watched as his companion walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He just watched, completely silent. His mind was spinning. It started wandering as he watched the other man moving back and fourth in his kitchen. It reminded him of one of the last times Sherlock had made him tea. Tears welled up in his eyes and he gripped the edge of the couch tightly. When the tea was done and Lestrade had handed him his cup, he stared at it for a moment before not being able to hold back anymore. He broke down and started crying, hard. He felt the hot cup being taken out of his hands, and after placing it in the table, Lestrade sat down next to him and started rubbing his back gently.

"John..." he whispered, trying to calm him down. "It's okay, John."

"No, it's not okay," John sobbed. "I'm not okay. I try, Greg. I try so hard. I tried going back to surgery, I tried going out with Mary, and none of it helps. I always end back up at his grave. I text him in some stupid fucking hope he'll text back. I think I see him on the other side of the street."

Greg pulled him into a tight hug, shutting his eyes tight. He knew John was hurting, but he had no idea it was this bad. His body was shaking as he continued to sob, now muffled in Greg's shoulder.

"I can't do this anymore," he continued, unable to stop from bearing all his feelings now. It's like a dam had busted. "I fell in love with him, Greg. I didn't realize it until I saw him fall off that building. I love him with all my heart and I'll never be able to tell him."

Speechless, Greg just continued to hold him. He held him tight until he had exhausted himself so much that between being drunk, and crying, finally fell asleep. Silence filled the flat. Finally, Greg was able to shift John into a lying position on the couch and covered him with a blanket, figuring that was the safest place for him right now. Sighing, he cleaned up in the kitchen and left, locking the door behind him and heading home.


	3. Chapter 3

_'I can't do this anymore. Please come back. Please don't be dead. -JW'_

_'Everything reminds me of you. I can't get away from you. I can't breathe. -JW'_

Sherlock continued to stare at his most recent texts from John. These particular ones had beeped at him around midnight. Now, seven hours later, his eyes were once again glued to those words. He had tried to ignore it so he could get his work done. He was so close to figuring everything out. Then, this.

He recalled Mycroft mentioning John making arrangements to hang out with Lestrade last night. The obvious conclusion was that these particular messages were what John had always called a drunk text. They had gone to the pub, and Sherlock recalled his inebriation levels. After three beers (on an empty stomach) John would come home stumbling some. After four, he'd get very clumsy, his actions no longer his own. That was usually where he would stop himself. So, for him to send what he did, he had to have had at least five or six beers. If beer if what they drank.

Leaning back, Sherlock propped his long legs up on the counter in front of him. He was still in Molly's lab, however, everyone else had gone home. He was too wrapped up in those files to notice he was alone in the hospital, until the text had broken him from his trance. The beginnings of exhaustion were probing him, but he pushed it back. He had no time to sleep. Not until they found this guy and got rid of him, one way or another. He would not sleep until he was back in his flat. He refused.

So he forced past it, set his phone down, and grabbed the papers again. He had narrowed down potential locations to a ten-mile radius, and had already talked to Mycroft. His eyes scanned over all the evidence again, and his eyes widened. He got up so fast his chair went clattering to the floor loudly.

He was staring off into space now, his eyes still zipping back and fourth. In his mind palace, he could manipulate all information. And so he scanned and sorted and shifted, forehead creased in concentration. Everything was coming together. This was it. Everything clicked, clear as day, and he had it. He snatched his phone and called his brother.

"Hello?"

"18 hours."

"18 hours what, Sherlock?"

"I've got it. I know where he is, and where he's going. I'm leaving."

"Wait, Sherlock. Call Lestrade. Get back up. Remember what I said about being no good if you died now?"

Sherlock scoffed. Lestrade would ask questions. Take forever. He would be quicker on his own. He paced back and fourth impatiently, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Fine," he snapped. "I'll call Lestrade. But I won't wait around all day. I want this finished."

He hung up and stared at his phone again, still pacing. Sighing, he went to dial Lestrade's number. Best get this conversation over as quick as possible.

* * *

John woke with a groan. The moment he opened his eyes it felt like he was getting stabbed in the skull. He grabbed the blanket that was draped over him and covered his face, willing the light to go away. This was one hell of a hangover. He hadn't meant to drink as much as he did last night, but... He couldn't stop himself. He took deep breaths, trying to will away the pain, while hoping that he wouldn't get sick the moment he sat up. Finally, he was able to get up and he reached for his phone. He had a text. His stomach clenched, but when he saw it was from Lestrade his heart sank. Not that he was expecting it to be from...him...but his mind couldn't help but be irrational.

_'John, get a hold of me if you need anything. I know how hard this is on you, and I'm here. Just call. I'm serious. -Greg'_

He smiled some. He was lucky to have such a good friend. He barely remembered how broken down he was when they came back to his flat last night. He hadn't wanted to burden Greg with that, but add alcohol to the mix and he just couldn't keep it hidden anymore. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to wake himself up, and went to put the kettle on.

Cup in hand, he sat down in his chair, taking small drinks. His phone lit up next to him with a new text. He peered over.

_'Hey John. Want to do dinner tonight? Let me know. I'd like to see you. Kisses.'_

He picked up his phone, finger hovering over the delete button. It's not that he was opposed to dinner with Mary tonight. He just didn't think he'd be in the right frame of mind for anything remotely like a date. He needed to bite the bullet and tell her. He hated leading anyone on. Why couldn't he just tell her?

_'Sure. Let me know.'_

"Coward..." he muttered to himself after he pressed send. He just couldn't. Another buzz.

_'Great! I was thinking Angelo's. It's near your flat, yeah? Lets say... 6:30?'_

His eyes flicked up to the time on the top of his phone. It was almost noon. Should give him plenty of time to sober up and take a shower.

_'Right. See you then.'_

He tossed his phone in frustration, where it bounced into the couch. Why couldn't he just say no? He finished drinking his tea and got a second cup before moving into the bathroom, slowly. Once in, he turned on the shower and sat on the side of the tub with a sigh. He held his head in his hands, gripping his hair tightly, eyes shut. This was not getting better. Would it ever get better? People said it would, but he was having a hard time believing them right now. This agony seemed never-ending.

He stood and stripped down once the bathroom was nice and steamy, and stepped under the hot water. He shut his eyes and lifted his chin so the water was beating down on his face. His muscles slowly loosened, and his brain fell quiet. A shower was his retreat. Not just now, but it had been since he had come back from Afghanistan. Eyes still closed, he unconsciously lifted his hand to cover the scar on his shoulder, pressing down in the skin. All those nights plagued with nightmares, waking up screaming and shaking and crying, he would always retreat to the shower. His therapist had told him it was a mentally soothing practice. That he would literally wash away the horrors running through his mind. He really didn't give a damn how she wanted to explain it to him. What mattered is that it helped, for a while. Most of the time.

John had no idea how long he stood there. He had no concept of time anymore. He didn't care to. How ironic it was. As a solider, time was engrained in him. Always punctual, always precise, mind two steps ahead. John was falling behind, and he didn't seem to care anymore how far he fell.

* * *

Sherlock's fingers were drumming on the brick wall restlessly. His lips were pressed in a fine line as he watched the virtually empty street. The setting was all too familiar. He was but a block away from Baker Street, and it made him very nervous. It had been easy to figure out once he saw the pattern. This man had been slowly but surely getting closer and closer to 221B, and he was both anxious and irritated by this. Clearly there was a plan. A plan involving John. Sherlock wasn't sure what the end goal was but he sure as hell didn't want to find out.

He glanced at his watch without actually looking at what time it was. To say he was fidgety would be an understatement. He had forgotten this feeling... Like he was trying to crawl out of his skin, and his mind was racing. Lestrade's phone call had been interesting. He sounded spooked, a call from a ghost. Technically that was right. He started yelling. Something about him being a twat and did he have any idea what his stunt has done to John, of course he knew. It took too long to get him to shut up and listen. It was taking too long now. An annoyed grunt left his throat and he absent-mindedly began running his fingers up and down his other arm, abandoning the brick. His skin itched. It was annoying. In his pocket, his phone buzzed. He halted his scratching and pulled it out.

_'Do you have something to tell me, little brother? -MH'_

He grimaced and his eyes narrowed, irritated. His thumbs flew over the keys quickly.

_'Sod off. -SH'_

_'Sherlock. -MH'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could practically hear the annoyance that would've been dripping from Mycroft's voice had they really been talking. He ignored it, going to drop his phone back into his coat, when it buzzed again.

_'Sherlock, when did you start using again? -MH'_

His back stiffened. He wasn't surprised his brother knew. He would've figured it out eventually, having eyes everywhere and all.

_'When, Sherlock? -MH'_

_'My business. None of yours. -SH'_

_'It is my business. It's always my business. -MH'_

_'No. It's not. Now stop bothering me, I've got an operative to kill. -SH'_

This time he ignored the buzz, pocketing his phone again and walking out into the street. He was tired of waiting. London's finest? More like London's slowest. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat, he walked briskly along the edge of the buildings, head down, heart racing. Then, he stopped at a worn brown door. This was it.

He slowly opened the door, thankful he didn't have to pick the lock (a bothersome task), and slipped into the pitch black house without a sound. He felt his phone vibrate again in his pocket. His fingers wrapped around a small handgun he had acquired a few months back. His heart was pounding, and his blood was humming through his veins. A mix of cocaine and adrenaline. Unfortunately, his impatience blinded him to the figure that came up behind him, and the last thing he felt was a strong blow to the back of the head before a different kind of darkness took over.

* * *

**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. **

The bold words glared at him on the computer screen as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, template blank. John had wanted to write something, anything, but now that he sat down all words left him.

It was late, almost midnight at least. Dinner with Mary had been... Nice. A distraction, mainly. She had flirted with him and kept putting her hand over his and talking about anything and everything. He was able to pull himself through his end of the conversation, forced smiles where warranted, but he was glad when he finally came back home.

With a frown, he gave up and shut the lid of his laptop, taking out the rest of the light in the living room. All that illuminated him now was a street lamp outside the window. He sat there for a few minutes, before turning and opening the drawer to his right on desk. He stared into it for what felt like an eternity before reaching in and pulling out his L106A1. It was smooth and heavy in his hand. This pistol had gotten him through some of the toughest scrapes over in Afghanistan, and he'd had it for a long time.

He watched as his thumb flicked off the safety, his heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. It would be so easy... His eyes stared at the end of the barrel as he lifted the gun, bringing it closer. A beat. Two. Then he blinked as if coming out of a trance, put the safety back on, and almost threw it back into the drawer. Eyes wide, he slammed it shut and stood up in a hurry, knocking his chair over.

"Damnit John, what the hell?" he asked himself, trembling. He had just considered shooting himself in the head. Really considering it. Thoroughly freaked out now, he thought it best to try putting himself to bed. He curled up in a tight ball, burying himself under the layers of covers on the bed (Sherlock's, not his own). He eventually fell to sleep, trying to ignore that small voice in the back of his mind that was still trying to convince him to go back and get his Sig Sauer again.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke with a groan, and once he came to, searing pain shot through every inch of him. He clenched his teeth, sucking in a deep breath, trying to assess the situation. It was still dark, but not as dark as before. Sunlight. Just barely. Based on the shade it was just beginning to rise. He had been out for at least five hours. He grimaced. Looking around, he couldn't discern much. Abandoned flat. Thin layers of dust - nothing used. A single lamp on a table, bulb burned out. If he hadn't already known about the man's movements, it would be terribly obvious now that he has just gotten here. Previous tenant likely evicted due to poor living conditions. Single male, 37, low self esteem, clinically depressed. None of that mattered now though.

He flexed his fingers, balling them into fists, trying to return feeling to them. His wrists were bound together so tightly that he had gone numb. His legs were tied as well. Not together, but they were attached to the legs of the rickety wooden chair he had been put in. He glanced down, noticing some things missing. His scarf and coat had been taken off, now sitting in a tossed pile in the floor nearby. His shirt had been ripped open, taking some of the buttons, and he saw the source of the prominent searing pain he had been feeling. He had a huge gash going down his chest, starting at his collarbone and going down past his nipple (which was carefully avoided). It had stopped bleeding at this point, having crusted and dried all around the cut and down his torso. He had lost a fair amount, explaining his light-headedness. Along with the pain, every limb was itching. It made him start fidgeting. It was then that a low laugh rang out in front of him, to his left. He froze, moving his gaze but not his head. It was then that he saw the figure over in the corner, arms crossed, leaning against a wall. The man pushed off the wall and started to walk towards him, a knife of some sort in his left hand.

"Well well. The late Sherlock Holmes. Turns out you're not quite as dead as everyone thinks. Amusing." A maniacal grin was on his face, reminding Sherlock way too much of Moriarty.

"Sebastian Moran," was his response, voice low and even. This was him, the right-hand. The last piece of the chaotic puzzle. And he was foolish enough to get ambushed by him. Lord knows what consequences awaited him, though he hand a pretty good idea. Moran laughed, throwing his head back dramatically.

"Oh, how fortunate for me. How fortunate indeed. This is a big day, Mr. Holmes. A big day."

"Why don't you keep repeating yourself, I don't quite get it," Sherlock remarked, rolling his eyes in annoyance. The response he got was a backhand to the face, snapping his head to the side forcefully. He gritted his teeth to avoid making noise.

"You have no room to be a smart ass, Sherlock Holmes. I have a job to finish. It's just a shame how my fortunate day is not going to be as fortunate for Doctor John Watson."

Sherlock was stiff as a board, refusing to dignify the man with a response. Moran smirked again, running the tip of his blade along Sherlock's cheek (though without breaking skin).

"But who knows," he whispered, his face real close to Sherlock's now. "From what I've been seeing, it might be more fortunate for him than one would think. I bet Dr. Watson would welcome death."

Growling, Sherlock took a gamble. He reared back and slammed his head into Moran's. It caused him to see spots for a moment, but it was successful in throwing Moran off his balance and he went crashing to the ground. With a yell he was up again, gripping the knife tightly, and he stormed back over.

"How DARE you strike me. For a brilliant man, you're being rather stupid. But then again, that's what happens when you start going through cocaine withdraws. Pathetic," he spat in Sherlock's face. Again, he refused to say anything in response. His captor snorted, turning from him and going to look out of the window. Sherlock did as well, feeling himself go pale when he saw the outside. On this end of the building, the window gave the perfect vantage point to Baker Street. To John. Sherlock clenched his fists even tighter, breaking skin and feeling a small amount of warm blood coat his fingertips. He had to get out of this. He closed his eyes, sinking into his Mind Palace as best he could. He had to be rational. He needed a plan. John's life depended on it. It was clear that the only way he was getting out of these ropes was to break one of his wrists. That would give him the flexibility he needed to free himself. It had been... quite a while since he last broke his own wrist. It was, however, more of an annoyance than anything else.

Moran had taken his attention away from him, rustling through a bag sitting on a table on the other side of the room. Sherlock could see weaponry, lots of it. A sniper, some pistols... All meant for John, probably. Sherlock took this chance to start twisting his arms. He kept his eyes on Moran, and after a few moments, he could feel a snap in his wrist. He bit his lip so hard it bled in order to not utter a sound. There was a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, and once the initial break was over he was panting softly. More unpleasant than he remembered. He stilled after that, needing to play this smart. He needed to wait. He didn't have to wait long, either. Moran had loaded himself up with all sorts of things, and made his way back over, running the tip of the knife along his cheek again. This time he did cut, but just enough to bleed. It was nothing compared to the one on his chest, and would only take a couple of days to heal and completely disappear.

"Hang tight detective. I'm going to pay your precious flat mate a visit."

Another smirk. A glint of insanity in his eyes. Sherlock said nothing. And with that he was gone. A minute later and Sherlock was slipping his hands out of the ropes, and then moved to untie his legs. This took longer than it should since he could only use one hand effectively. Standing, he had to grab the chair to prevent himself from collapsing. Then, he made his way over to where his coat was strewn out on the floor and retrieved his phone, dialing Lestrade. They had to hurry. Things had just gotten worse.

* * *

John sat in the dark at his desk, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the surface of his Sig Sauer. He stared off into space, not really looking at anything in particular. It hadn't even been a week since his "date" with Mary, but it felt like an eternity. He hadn't left the flat since then, had barely been on his phone, and hadn't done much of anything really. Mrs. Hudson was worried, which she voiced often. He would force a smile and recite practiced, empty words of consolation.

He was not okay. However, he said that he was over and over. They rolled off his tongue like instinct now. They were practically second nature, but they were hollow words. If he were okay, would he be sitting in the dark, hand on his gun? Not by a long shot.

John was a soldier. He had done many things in his life, good and bad. He had killed before. That's the price of war. But not once in his career did he have the thoughts he was having now. Having suicidal intentions was dishonorable, and ones he never had, even when he came back home from Afghanistan due to injury. Not even then, when it's even more likely for other soldiers. Yet here he was. He just wanted the pain to stop. He wanted the chance to see Sherlock again. He was ashamed, but that didn't change how badly he wanted it.

He sighed shakily, holding back sobs. In the distance he heard movements, and the sound of the front door opening and closing. Had Mrs. Hudson gone out? She must have. After all, who else would be coming over at this hour?

* * *

Sherlock ran. His coat fanned out behind him and he was breathing hard. Adrenaline had kicked in, taking over both his withdrawal symptoms and the immense pain radiating from his broken bones. His good hand clutched his phone tightly.

Baker Street was right next to where he was. Even so, it felt like he had to run through all the back streets of London. It was taking too long. John didn't have this kind of time. There was no time ...

John.

It was a chant inside his head, in time with his heavy breaths. _ JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_.

There was no time!

He was almost there. 221B was in his sights. The brass doorknocker. He was so close...

A strong hand came out of nowhere, latching itself onto his elbow, bringing him to a screeching halt. Blue eyes wide and frantic, he spun around, finding himself facing Greg Lestrade. He tried to jerk away, and failed. A frustrated cry escaped him.

"Let me go Lestrade!" he snarled. Yes, snarled was really the only appropriate word for the anger and desperation that was in his voice. The DI shook his head sternly.

"Let us handle it Sherlock. Let my guys in. They're trained for this."

No time. No bloody time!

Lestrade, however, was not letting go. Sherlock exhaled through his nose and stopped struggling. He had no choice. In his peripheral he saw three officers wearing bulletproof vests silently slipping into the flat. He watched, and waited.

* * *

John tried lifting his head. Key word: tried. His neck felt like jell-o, so the moment he glanced up, his head fell right back down. He groaned, his vision blurred, trying to figure out what had happened.

He remembered hearing the door. He thought it was Mrs. Hudson. Then, footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. It didn't register to him that the footsteps were too heavy and slow to be his landlady until it was too late. A tall figure made its way swiftly into the flat. He stood, but before he could move the man was behind him, and the last thing he felt was a needle being pressed into his neck, and he blacked out.

So he had been drugged. That explained his lack of reflex right now. At least he was still in 221B. He'd recognize that rug anywhere. Clenching his teeth, he looked up again, and almost yelped as he found himself face to face with who he assumed attacked him. The man was clean cut (Army, he could tell right away), strong, and his eyes were unsettling. A wide grin slid into his face when they made eye contact.

"Nice of you to join us, Doctor," the man spoke. "I was starting to get bored."

"Who-" he tried to ask, but was cut short when the guy pressed the barrel of a gun against his cheek.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service, Doctor Watson. Afghanistan. Small world, huh?" He laughed maniacally and took a step back, continuing to point the gun at him. John just watched. He could barely move, and couldn't bring himself to speak. Colonel? Made sense, the way he carried himself. The way he held his gun.

"People are so selfish, Doctor Watson," he continued speaking, moving to sit across from him. Sherlock's chair ... That bastard was in Sherlock's chair. That pissed John off more than he could handle. He had no right to sit there. "You can blame him, you know. He was selfish. Impatient. It's his fault I'm here right now. It's his fault you're about to die."

"Wh-" John struggled to speak. "Who?"

Moran just laughed again, a loud laugh from the gut. His was a laugh that made John's skin crawl. This man was insane.

"You really don't know? Oh, that makes this even more delicious."

John saw a slight shift in the gun, and was temporarily deafened as Moran fired. His vision went blank and whatever drug was in his system couldn't block out the pain he began to feel five seconds later. In his mind, John began to panic. He glanced down to see blood coming out of his shoulder. He blacked out.

When he came to, he was sweating. It was so hot, so dry. His ears were ringing; sun was beating down on him. There were explosions everywhere. He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He felt heavy; a fallen comrade was pressing him into the hot sand. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

A scream finally escaped him and his eyes flew open, only to find himself back in his flat on Baker Street. Wait. Wasn't he just in Afghanistan? They had been attacked... Everyone was dead except him... Tears welled up in his eyes and he let out a strangled cry. Moran had shot him in his old wound. It had forced his mind back to that desert, all those years ago. God. He could never escape it. His ears were still ringing so he could barely hear the insane laughter that was still being emitted from the man sitting across from him.

What happened next was a blur. A loud bang. The door crashing to the ground. Moran was on his feet. People were shouting. So many guns. Moran running. More gunfire - John flinched. Voices. So many voices. A window shattered. He felt light-headed. Falling. No, collapsing. Orders were being barked.

He whimpered as he felt himself being lifted, being pulled into a lap. A hand on his face. Hand pressing down hard on his shoulder. Panicked voices now. Deep baritone. Familiar. His eyes fluttered open, his vision spinning. Pale face. Curly black hair. Wide blue eyes. John couldn't breathe.

"She-"

"Stay with me John," the deep voice commanded. It sounded so far away... "John. John! You're going into shock. Stay with me!"

"Sher-"

Then, nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

**I wanted to take a quick moment to thank everyone for your kind reviews and favorites! I really appreciate it. :) I also wanted to say real quick that while I am doing my best in staying as true to Sherlock's personality as possible, a couple of things might be a tad OOC. I don't think it's too bad, but I just wanted to give a heads up. I hope you all keep reading, and any thoughts you might have for me are always appreciated, ^_^**

* * *

John's eyes opened lazily, out of focus. He groaned, his throat scratchy and dry, trying to figure out what was going on. There was a steady beeping in the background. A heart monitor? He could make out a couple of shapes, all of them familiar. He was in a hospital room. He started to move, trying to sit up, and pain shot down him. He hissed, and that's when he noticed movement. Someone coming up beside him. A hand on his arm, another against his good shoulder. Pushing him back down on the bed. Tilting a glass of cool water to his lips. He drank greedily.

He was panting now. Such a small action took so much out of him. All of this reminded him of when he was wounded in Afghanistan. God, he was definitely going to have nightmares again... The person moved, crouching into a sitting position next to him. Who was it? He couldn't remember much after he was shot. He was trying to remember...

There has been a strong hand pressing down on his shoulder, probably trying to stop the bleeding. He vaguely recalled a voice, a panicked voice, talking to him, calling his name. It was a deep voice, one that invoked a different kind of pain, one in his heart. Eyes as blue as the sky... He heard the heart rate monitor speed up some. It had been Sherlock. Sherlock. Was that who was here now? He strained to see, his vision clearing.

He refrained from letting out a sob when he saw Lestrade instead. His friend was looking over at him, concern evident on his face.

"All right, John?" he asked softly, leaning forward to pat his hand gently. John forced a nod.

"What..." His voice cracked from lack of use. "...happened?"

"You were attacked. Sebastian Moran."

Moran. He remembered that name. He had told him he was a Colonel right?

"Turns out he was Moriarty's second in command. That's why he attacked you. We got there in time, you'll be alright mate."

John sighed, sagging into the bed. His head was finally clearing. Why hadn't Greg said anything about Sherlock yet? It was Sherlock. He was alive.

"Where is Sherlock?" he asked softly. Silence. He looked at Greg patiently. "Is he here?"

"No," Greg shook his head, brow furrowed in confusion. "John... Sherlock's gone, remember?"

"No," John responded louder, more in control with his voice. "Greg, he was there. After I got shot. He was there, trying to stop the bleeding."

Greg's confusion faded away and was replaced with pain, sorrow. John curled his hand into a fist.

"That was Dimmock," Greg said. "I'm sorry John. Moran had drugged you. You started going into shock from where he shot you in your old would. You must have been hallucinating..."

John tried to hold back tears. He was unsuccessful, so when they started running down his cheek he turned his head away. Of course it wasn't Sherlock. No man can come back from the dead, no matter how clever they were. His frightened mind saw what he wanted to see. He bit his lip, the smallest of sobs escaping him. He heard Greg stand.

"I have to get to the station. I'll come back and see you again later, yeah?"

No response. John couldn't form words. Greg nodded in understanding, gave John's hand a supportive squeeze, and left the room.

* * *

"I can't lie to him. Telling him it was Dimmock who was at the flat was one of the worst things I've had to say to him in ages. Why won't you go in there?"

Sherlock was silent, arms crossed, staring out of the window. He had bandages on his cheek and chest, and after much convincing from a nurse, his wrist wrapped in a brace. He flat out refused a cast.

"Is he okay?" he asked, ignoring his question. Lestrade sighed and leaned against the wall.

"Yes," he muttered. "He'll be fine. Sherlock-"

"He can't know I'm alive," he interrupted sternly.

"Why the hell not?" Lestrade asked, voice raised. "Have you seen how miserable he is? I have. Almost a year, Sherlock. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose with his good hand. This was so irritating. He was tired of having to explain everything. It was so obvious.

"I might have been able to go in there if London's finest hadn't let the madman get away," he spat, eyes narrowing as his finally faced the DI. He was infuriated. He had Moran right where he wanted him. But Lestrade stopped him from going into the flat. Now there was no telling where Moran was, what he would do next. He had to start the search all over again. Lestrade stormed over in front of him, clearly wanting to punch him. Sherlock didn't move, his eyes on fire, daring him to do it. He didn't. Obvious.

"A year, Sherlock," he said through gritted teeth. _Almost_, Sherlock corrected in his head. _Almost a year_. "John mourned you. He's STILL mourning you. I mourned you. And here you are, definitely not dead."

"I thought you'd be relieved," he retorted.

"No! I'm pissed you did it in the first place. What is wrong with you?!" Sherlock shut his eyes as Lestrade shouted at him. Annoying.

"We'd all be dead if I didn't do what I did," he finally shouted back. Lestrade's words halted and his eyes widened.

"What?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock snorted.

"Moriarty had snipers trained on John. Mrs. Hudson. You. If I hadn't jumped off Bart's that day, you all would have been killed. I don't do anything for no reason. Honestly, I can't believe any of you really think I'd kill myself. What a dull train of thought, suicide." He rolled his eyes and looked back out the window. Lestrade was still silent. Processing the information in his dull, normal brain, no doubt. Ridiculous.

"So what now?" Lestrade finally asked, voice back at a normal level.

"Now? I leave again. I track down where Moran went. Who he's contacted. I find them, and get rid of them. When all of that's taken care of..." His voice got uncharacteristically small now. "I can come home."

"What about John, Sherlock?"

"I told you. He's not to know I'm alive."

"But Moran knows. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of keeping him in the dark? Him not knowing won't keep him out of harm's way anymore."

That had to be the smartest thing Lestrade had said so far in this conversation. He was right. John wasn't safe anymore. Even so, the things he had to do and the places he had to go, John was better off staying in the dark, staying in London.

"If he knows, he'll try to follow me," Sherlock pointed out. "I don't know how long this will take. I don't know where I might have to go. John's home is here, his life is here. Mary is here..."

He tried to keep the disgust out of his voice when saying her name. If Lestrade noticed he didn't let on. He crossed his arms, nodding slightly.

"I get it," he said. "I'll keep it quiet. But for God's sake, Sherlock, get this done quick. You need to come home. John is... I don't honestly know. He worries me some days."

"John will be fine." Sherlock closed his eyes. He knew that he was trying to convince himself of that more than telling Lestrade. For the first time in his life, he was uncertain. It was uncomfortable, and he hated it. He needed to go. He needed...

Shoving his good hand into the pocket of his coat, he ran his finger pads across the smooth wooden box sitting there, and exhaled, purposely avoiding Lestrade's unknowing gaze. He didn't want to admit what he needed.

* * *

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

_John felt panic in his chest as he stared up at Sherlock on the roof, going on and on about him being a fake. Saying he had researched him before they met. Why was he lying? _

_"Do what?" he asked into the phone, voice wavering, eyes wide. _

_"This phone call, it's... It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_Oh god. John's breaths were getting faster. Dread was filling up in him. Every muscle ached. _

_"Leave a note when?" He forced the words out, already knowing the answer. He could hear Sherlock breathing on the other end of the phone. Shaky breaths, was he crying? _

_"Goodbye, John."_

_He saw Sherlock move, throw out his arm to cast his phone aside, where it fell to the concrete. Then, he began to extend both arms…_

_"No. Don't." _

_He was falling. _

_"SHERLOCK!"_

_John blacked out as he heard his best friend hit the ground. There was a weight on top of him. He felt numb. When he finally opened his eyes, he was no longer in front of St. Bart's. He wasn't even in London. Instead, he was once again being pinned into the hot sand in Afghanistan. Explosions were going off everywhere. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils. He lifted his head to survey the area, and his eyes fell upon the weight on him. A person. A soldier? No... He was sitting up, and the body rolled off of him. Another wave of panic and nausea shot through him. _

_It was Sherlock. Blood covered his face. His black hair was soaked in it. The back of his head was caved in - from the impact of the concrete no doubt. That's right, he had jumped... With shaking hands John tried to revive him, ignoring the blood pouring out of his own shoulder. He screamed in frustration when nothing worked. What good was he as a doctor if he couldn't save anyone?! _

_Suddenly, the body next to him moved, began to sit up. John froze, eyes wide. However, the eyes that stared back did not belong to Sherlock. Moriarty was in front of him now, laughing, pulling out a gun. _

_"Goodbye," he said in that insane sing-song voice, pointing the gun directly between John's eyes. He took a quick, deep breath, fists clenched. _

_St. Bart's again. John looked around frantically before it dawned on him. He was on the roof. In front of him, on the ledge, was Sherlock. They were staring at each other. _

_"What's going on?" he asked. He had asked so many times. _

_"An apology." Sherlock's voice cracked. He was trembling. John took a tentative step forward. "It's all true."_

_"What?"_

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

_John was close to him now. Maybe if he got to him in time, he could finally stop all this. _

_"Why are you saying this?" He was trembling now too, his voice barely above a whisper. _

_"I'm a fake." Sherlock was on the verge of tears now. John had only seen him cry once before, in Dartmoor... _

_"Sherlock..." He was almost there. A few more steps. John started to reach his hand out. He could almost touch him. _

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone that will listen to you... that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

_"Okay, shut up Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met..." His voice was cracking too. What a pair they were, standing on a roof, crying together. He was right in front of Sherlock now. "The first time we met, you knew all about my sister."_

_"Nobody could be that clever." Tears were sliding down Sherlock's pale face. John reached out, grabbing Sherlock's hand. He laced their fingers together and they were inches apart now, their noses almost touching. _

_"You could," he whispered. Sherlock laughed. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and pressed a timid kiss to his chest. _

_"John."_

_"If you fall, I fall. We go together."_

_Then they were. Sherlock's arms out, John's eyes closed, he could feel the cold wind as they fell. He held on tight. He meant what he said. They would fall together. _

_Sherlock and John. Consulting detective and his blogger. Always together._

* * *

John shifted in his hospital bed, letting out a pained whimper in his sleep. A tear slid down his cheek. Sherlock reached out and gently brushed it away with his thumb. He could only imagine what kinds of nightmares he was having right now.

He ran his fingers through John's hair. It was something he had wanted to do for months. He hated that this would be his only chance for a while. This was supposed to have been over now. He was supposed to be going home. To Baker Street. To Mrs. Hudson. To John. He had effective wiped out everyone in Moriarty's circle that was an active player, and Moran had been the last obstacle. He had a suspicion that since he got away, he had more pieces to place on the board. More players, people who didn't matter before. Moran was clever, that much was evident. Clever, but not too intelligent. It was a shame, really. Sherlock doubted it would take long to figure everything out again. The biggest factor will be how far he might have to travel.

He would have to work quickly. They didn't have much time at all. He had to take the heat off of London, away from Baker Street. He despised the idea of requesting assistance from Mycroft, but he was the first to admit that his brother's position in the government could prove to be very useful. He was on a timetable; it might be his best option.

He huffed and stroked John's forehead gently, watching as the other man started to come down from whatever horrors were plaguing him. He had to go.

"I'm so sorry, John," he whispered. He leaned down and placed a small kiss on his forehead, breathing in his familiar scent. He missed these smells, though he'd probably never admit it. One last hesitation, one last gaze at that sleeping face, and he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been 5 months since John had found himself in the hospital. He would soon be reaching the end of his physical therapy, he hoped, and maybe he could go back to the surgery. He needed some form of normality in his life. Not working, and having all this pain (both physical and mental) was too much like how things were when he had returned from Afghanistan.

He exhaled through his nose as he sunk back into the seat of the cab, trying to relax. He stared down at his hand, flexing his fingers slightly. There was a tightness in his muscles that was all too familiar. The nerves were healing, but the process was excruciatingly slow. The worst part about it all, though, wasn't the pain or the recovery. He lifted his hand slightly and grimaced as he watched his tremor come to life. He wasn't surprised that it was back - he was a doctor, of course, he was prepared for that possibility - but that didn't make him any more acceptable of it. That damn tremor, along with his limp, made him feel more than useless. He longed to go back to a time where he was far from useless. He missed running through the back streets of London in the dark of night, chasing murderers, side by side with the most brilliant person he had ever known. He had made a difference then. He was important. He had even tried taking over the consulting detective gig for a while when Lestrade kept asking him out to crime scenes, but he was only half as good at the necessary deductions. Then, when he had been attacked and injured, even that stopped all together.

John was pulled from his thoughts as the cab came to a stop. He thanked the cabbie, paid him, and got out slowly, gripping his cane with his good hand tightly. He sighed again as he stared up that the building in front of him. With the physical therapy drawing to a close, it was time for the other type of therapy. He was not happy to be back here. As nice as Ella was, as well as she meant, he would rather be anywhere but here. There was no getting past it though, so he squared his shoulders, his soldier face falling into place, and headed up.

He was greeted with a bright smile from the receptionist, one he tried to return, but it ended up being half-hearted.

"Mr. Watson," she cooed. "Ms. Thompson is just finishing up. Please have a seat."

He nodded in thanks, taking his time so he didn't fall into the chair loudly, and glanced at a stack of magazines on the table in front of him.

"Would you like something to drink while you wait? Water, or perhaps some tea?"

"Thank you, but I'm fine," he replied with a polite shake of his head. He stared down at his lap, when the door to Ella's office finally opened. A beautiful woman with conflict on her face walked out, and then Ella appeared at the door and smiled.

"John. Won't you come in?"

She turned and walked back in the room, and John unwillingly followed. The layout had hardly changed since he was last here. She had gotten some new chairs, but that was really the only difference he noticed. Silently, he went and took his place in the seat across from where she was already sitting, legs crossed and clipboard in her lap.

"So, John, it's been a while since we've seen each other," she said, finally breaking the silence. "What have you been up to?"

John shrugged. He really had no idea what to say. Ella waited patiently, not rushing his words. She was always like that, and he appreciated it. He could only imagine how difficult of a patient he could be.

"Not much, really," he finally answered. It wasn't a lie, not entirely.

"Can you talk to me about what was behind your decision to stop seeing me last time? It's been over a year since you were here, after what happened."

John's breath hitched in his throat. Of course she would bring up Sherlock. That probably wouldn't be the only time, either. He stared out of the window, trying to collect his thoughts. He wasn't very successful, but he felt obligated to tell her something.

"I, uh... Well." He cleared his throat and glanced at her, where she sat so patiently. She was always so patient with him. "I got a handle on things, in a way. Went back to work at the surgery, met a girl."

"A girl?" she asked, a faint smile on her face. "Are you two still together?"

John nodded.

"We are. Her name's Mary. We met at a coffee shop while I was on my lunch break one day, she asked me out two weeks after." He felt weird talking about Mary. He couldn't really figure out why, either. "She's been great. Been with me every step of the way, especially after I was put back in the hospital."

"Yes, I'm glad you brought that up," Ella said, crossing her legs. "That incident is, if course, the reason behind you bring here today. It's not uncommon for trauma like that to leave its mark, as you well know. And with it being so close to the place of the original wound you sustained in combat, the chances of it affecting you are raised even higher. I'd like to start simple. How have you been sleeping?"

_'I haven't'_ was his gut reaction, but as John opened his mouth to say just that, his brain caught up with him and quickly silenced those words.

"Not well," is what he went with. He closed his eyes and exhaled as he listened to Ella scribble notes down. "The nightmares are back. They're not the same as before, though. Sometimes I dream about Afghanistan... but nowhere near as much. It only happened at first, when the wound was so new. Sometimes it'll pop back up again, insert itself in between other things..."

Other things that included Sherlock. They always included Sherlock. He ran shaken fingers through his hair nervously.

"I... I dream about him. I have nightmares about him."

Ella paused, glancing up at him, and continued her writing. Great. Lord knows what she was noting down.

"About Sherlock Holmes." It wasn't a question. Of course it wasn't. There's no one else to which he could possibly be referring. He managed a nod and swallowed, his throat dry. He was briefly regretting turning down the offer for tea.

"Yes." His voice cracked, and he felt his cheeks getting hot. It was getting harder to pretend that he was okay. He tried focusing on the every day: work, Mary, but every night he was left with his thoughts and they pulled him back down into the abyss again.

"Losing a close friend is always hard; especially to the kinds of circumstances that surrounded your event. However... John, we have to move on. It will continue to drag you down until there is nothing left, and that's a shaky, unpredictable path."

Move on? Bloody hell, he'd been trying to move on. Just when he thought he had, it reared its ugly head again. He never knew whether to be depressed or pissed off.

"Are you still living at Baker Street?"

"No," John answered, shaking his head. "No, when I started physical therapy, Mary talked me into staying at her place. It's closer to the hospital and my job, so it was easier."

Ella asked more questions, and John went through the motions. He was numb. He put on his soldier face again when their time came to an end so he could cover up his immense relief. With a nod of thanks, he left, knowing he would have two weeks of peace before having to come back and endure this again.

* * *

There was something about standing over someone and watching the life drain out of their eyes that was oddly intoxicating. Though, Sherlock supposed he had the cocaine to blame for that. He knew that the intense wave of adrenaline and dopamine turned this act of strangling a man into the reward for winning. With this life extinguished, he was one giant step closer to going home for good. Back to London, where Baker Street and John Watson awaited him.

His mind was sharp as he navigated the roads of Barcelona. The data he was able to both deduce and torture out of that lackey gave him the information he needed. His fingers flew over the keys on his phone as he slipped onto a train and settled in for a long ride.

_'King's Bishop down. Particularly forthcoming. Going to Paris. -SH'_

He didn't have to wait long before his reply buzzed in his hand. His eyes flicked downwards.

_'Closing in on the King? -MH'_

Sherlock smirked, typing furiously.

_'Naturally. Just about at endgame. -SH'_

One heartbeat later, the reply vibrated in his hand.

_'Be cautious, little brother. Getting close to home. My intelligence suggests the King has put his Rook into play. The game is far from over. -MH'_

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes.

_'Kingside castling is boring and predictable. I recall how little that strategy ever worked for you. -SH'_

_'And I recall, in your haste and arrogance, how easily you always left your own Rook unguarded and forgotten. -MH'_

Sherlock's eyes slanted as a new wave of annoyance flowed through him.

_'All of my Pawns are in place. I have utilized my Knight. John is safe. -SH'_

_'Indeed. -MH'_

Sherlock pressed his lips in a thin line and pocketed his phone, not giving Mycroft the pleasure of a response. He folded his arms together on his chest and glanced at the other passengers around them. He began deducing them in his head to distract himself from the beginnings of his crash. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving him feeling drained and exhausted. The back of his skull itched, and every second that went by left him more irritated at everything for no reason at all.

Leaning his head back, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his hands together, fingertips resting against his chin. His leg bounced absentmindedly as he tried to collect all his thoughts. A rustle of clothing behind him caused him to peer out through his eyelashes as a figure moved past him, and in one fluid motion, slipped a piece of paper between his thumb and index finger. Sherlock stared at the paper and stilled himself, before finally unfolding it.

**'The Pawn chain has been set. The Knight is in the outpost. We are ready for the endgame.'**

He smirked, slipping the paper into his coat pocket. To think Lestrade had once not seen the point of Sherlock setting up his homeless network. It has been one of the best things he has thought to do early on. He returned to his former position: fingertips against his chin once more, trying to push away all threatening physical and sentimental issues. He had approximately 11 hours on this insufferable train before he reached Paris. The wooden box in his coat was practically burning itself through the fabric, scorching the skin of his thigh where it rested. He grimaced at the illusions his mind was betraying himself with. He did not miss this part. The crash and cravings were only worsened by the aggravating nag of guilt in the part of his mind that also housed everything John-related. The good doctor would be less than thrilled when he found that Sherlock had been at the needle again.

If he found out. Sherlock had every intention to have it behind him by the time he was back in Baker Street. Those dark blue eyes that belonged to John Watson were possibly the best deterrent Sherlock had never thought existed.

An hour later, he pulled out his phone and opened up a new text message.

_'I'll be home soon. I'm sorry for everything. Please wait for me. -SH'_

His finger hovered over the send button, as it always did. Always typing, never sending. Sighing, he erased the message as quickly as he had typed it. Then, his phone buzzed, and his heart practically jumped up in his throat.

_'Had to go to therapy today. Ella again. You always thought her to be such a hack. She asked about you... It was hard. -JW'_

Sherlock let go of a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It had been a while since he'd gotten a text from John. They had been less frequent when he had gotten out of the hospital before stopping all together. He told himself it was better that way, but seeing those initials pop up on his phone brought him a wave of relief he wasn't prepared for.

_'Haven't mentioned that I make a habit of texting my dead flat mate. Somehow that hasn't come up. -JW'_

Sherlock laughed at this one.

"Oh John..." he muttered to himself, smirking.

_'I miss you. -JW'_

Sherlock's smirk faded into a more serious expression. He ran a hand through his curly hair and glanced out the window briefly.

_'I miss you too. -SH'  
_ **-MESSAGE ERASED-**


	7. Chapter 7

"John?"

His name fell on deaf ears as John was attempting to read the newest detective novel he had picked up. Attempting, because he realized he had been staring at the same paragraph for at least ten minutes.

"John."

Her voice was sterner this time, pulling him out if his trance. He blinked and let the book fall to his lap as he glanced up to meet Mary's gaze above him. She was in a nightgown now, hands relaxed on her hips, hair down and framing her face. She truly was beautiful.

"Hmm?" he managed, his throat too dry to form words just yet. How long had she been standing there? He glanced at the clock - 10:30pm. Had dinner really been that long ago?

"I'm going to bed." Her voice and facial expression softened a bit. "Are you... Would you like to come with me?"

Her question was timid, her body anticipating his response already. John pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, hesitant to respond. He felt horrible. She had opened up her home to him and they had been together for almost a year now, they should be sharing the same bed at this point. John had been residing in her spare bedroom, though, and tonight would be no different.

"Mary, I... I can't. I'm sorry." He stood, wobbling slightly from his bad leg, and grasped her shoulder reassuringly. She looked into his eyes, disappointed, but not upset. She knew his response before she even asked the question. "I still have those nightmares... I can't put you through that."

They were an excuse. Not a lie, he did still have nightmares. He slept with his gun under his pillow and many nights when he came back to consciousness, he was sitting rigidly, eyes wild, holding it out in front of him. His grip was always tight and steady, prepared for war. He kept the safety on, of course, and had never disengaged it in his sleep, but it was not something he was willing to risk. He refused to let Mary lie in the same bed as his gun. However, even if he was no longer having the nightmares, he couldn't tell himself for sure that he would move into her room.

"I know, I understand. I just want to remind you that you can." Mary wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his forehead gently. He closed his eyes and smiled sadly. "Goodnight, John."

They shared another tender kiss and John watched her walk into her bedroom and shut the door. A tension he didn't know he had fallen off him and he sighed, rubbing his face roughly. Boy would Ella have a field day with all of this. He'd gone to see her three times now, and there was so much he still hadn't told her. He didn't know if he ever wanted to. She was there to help. He knew that. She always was. John couldn't help his aversion to all things mental therapy. With what had happened with his big sis when they were younger - all the unsuccessful and sometimes downright crude therapists - he had little faith on them as a whole. It was nothing personal with Ella, and he felt right bad about how stubborn he always was with her.

With a grimace planted firmly on his face, he picked up his empty teacup and went into the kitchen. He rolled his sleeves up and got to work on the dishes, and cleaning the counters and stove top. He and Mary had gotten into a flow where she would cook dinner and he would clean up. It was only fair for him to do his part, of course, and let it be said that John Watson always pulled his weight. It was more than that, though. This simple task had structure to it and didn't require thought or emotion. It was comforting. It was his nightly ritual before going up to bed to try and wind down from the day. When he was in the army, a lot of the men in his unit would disassemble and clean their guns before going to sleep at night. It was required, of course, and a point of pride to have a clean and efficient weapon. More than that, though, it gave them all a chance to stop thinking about all the shit around them and everything they missed back home. In a humorous way, cleaning the kitchen had taken the place of that. That's not to say he didn't sometimes find himself sitting cross-legged on his mattress, methodically taking apart his Sig Sauer. But if his army mates saw him now, he'd never heard the end of it.

He snapped out of a trance he didn't know he was in when he realized that if he scrubbed the plate he was holding any longer he'd probably scrub the design right off. He set it down in the drying rack and braced himself on the edge of the counter, closing his eyes tight, listening to the sound of running water from the faucet. It sounded distant and muffled. That made no sense, of course, because he was right in front of it, but he didn't have the heart to care. Finally, he turned the water off, shut off all the lights, and made his way up to his room. He peeled his jumper and shirt off, changed into a pair of sweatpants, and took his usual cross-legged position in the middle of his bed.

Tonight, though, he had no desire to take apart his gun. Still, he pulled his gun out of his nightstand and stared at it in his hands. His thumb stroked the cool metal gently and he blocked out all outside noise. How many nights had he sat here like this? How many nights did he stare at that barrel and think thoughts he was ashamed of? Too often he found himself pressing that barrel to his temple. He always pulled away, though, for Mary's sake more than anything. This was a nice room, and he wouldn't want her to have to deal with the messy cleanup. John snorted incredulously. How very British of him.

Finally, he flipped the safety on and slid the gun under his pillow. He lay down, covering his eyes with his forearm, hoping that he might get some uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

Sherlock gritted his teeth, trying to force the black spots in his vision to disappear. He gripped the arms around his throat tightly, his mind racing. People always underestimated him because he had a lanky frame. That was always their downfall.

Moran was different. He was prepared. Sherlock expected nothing less from the man. Nonetheless, this was a feat of strength he refused to loose. With a grunt, he flung his body forward enough to loosen the man's grip on him slightly. It was enough. He dug his blunt nails into Moran's skin, drawing the slightest line of blood, and reared backwards. His head collided with his attackers', sending him sprawling backwards. Panting, Sherlock straightened, glancing over to where his coat has been torn from his frame a few feet away.

"Pathetic," he spat breathlessly as Moran stumbled to his feet. The stocky man snarled, eyes wild, and lunged at him. Sherlock rooted his stance, ready for the attack this time. The collision was a hair weaker than before, no doubt a side effect of the minor concussion he was sure he had given him. He still had to take a step back to prevent himself from falling over. He turned and lifted his arm, hooking Moran in the jaw with his elbow. Then, taking advantage of the moment, decided it was finally time to launch back. They crashed to the ground, Sherlock grabbing Moran's arms firmly and pinning him to the ground. Moran began laughing hysterically.

"Oh what fun this is!" he hollered hoarsely. "You never disappoint, Sherlock Holmes."

The grin he was wearing was absolutely manic. It reminded Sherlock of Moriarty so much that it sent a quick chill down his spine. They stared at each other, Moran not bothering to struggle, both breathing heavily. Moran continued to giggle.

"This ends now," Sherlock said forcefully. "I'm done with this game of yours. I'm done with you."

"Oh, don't be a spoil sport. Just when we were finally getting close! Do you really long to be with your Johnny Boy so bad?"

Growling, Sherlock punched Moran. He grunted from the blow, but recovered quickly, laughing.

"Oh, you make me jealous. I wish I had killed that damn doctor when I had the chance. I could keep you all to myself. Make you the plaything Jim always dreamed of."

Another punch. And another. Anger and adrenaline were taking over reason, and all Sherlock wanted to do was kill this man. It was time. This was his last chance, he could tell. No time for elegance. No, Sherlock had to be efficient. Clenching his legs together to tighten his grip on the man under him, he released his arms to wrap his gloved hands around Moran's throat. Eyes widened as he realized what was happening.

"Really Sherlock?" he asked, voice already straining from the pressure on his windpipe. "This is... W-what you decide to do?"

Sherlock sneered, tightening his grip. He could hear Moran wheeze softly.

"So... Pedestrian." Sherlock snorted at this. He didn't care. Not anymore. Moran's eyes began to cloud, his breathing getting more shallow and spaced.

"Checkmate," Sherlock muttered as the man under him stilled. Finally, Sherlock released his neck, but he didn't get up right away. He closed his eyes and sighed, his head falling backwards as the injuries from the fight began to ache. It was over. It was finally all over. He could go home.

He bolted up and swept his coat off the ground, throwing it around his shoulders in one fluid motion. He yanked out his phone, which was very luckily remained undamaged. For the first time in two years, he ignored the text from John, opening up one to Mycroft, then Lestrade.

_'It's done. -SH'_

He took one last glance at Moran's lifeless body before storming out. He had a train to catch.

* * *

John sat in bed, curled up in a tight ball, hands gripping his hair. His eyes were clamped shut and he was breathing hard. He had finally stopped crying. A pained noise escaped his throat as he willed his eyes open to look around the dark room. His gun lay on the floor next to the wall, where it had landed as he'd promptly thrown it. He heard no noise in the flat, so it didn't seem like he'd woken Mary when it had crashed into the wall. Of that he was thankful. She was honestly one of the last people he wanted to see right now, as cruel as that sounded to him.

This had been his first nightmare in a few days. He had finally found some sort of relief, and as hollow as it had felt, at least he has been getting a full night's sleep. I guess it was too much to hope for that it would continue. He didn't feel like he was ever going to escape these dreams. They haunted him. Most people moved on after two years. Then there was John Watson.

He hated himself for not being able to move on. He hated Sherlock Bloody Holmes for getting under his skin, haunting him to the very depths of his soul. He hated Mycroft for the part he played. He hated Ella for not being able to make it all go away. All of it was irrational and he couldn't help any of it. It was so damn frustrating.

Standing, he walked over to the window in the bedroom. He leaned against the frame and placed a hand on the glass, staring out at the dark, rainy night. Beyond the window he heard the sounds of night. London... People never slept. At least he wasn't the only one. He couldn't help but frown at that thought.

Behind him, on the bedside table, his phone lit up and vibrated. He turned his head, confusion furrowing his brow. Who in the world was texting him at this hour? Pushing away from the window, he reached down and picked up his phone, opening the text.

_'Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.'_

John suddenly couldn't breathe. He quickly fell into a sitting position on the edge of his bed, his legs giving out under him. He gripped the duvet under him tightly as he stared at the text.

**UNKNOWN NUMBER**

What kind if cruel fucking joke was this?! Who in the hell... A sob escaped his throat before he knew it was there, and he clamped his hand over his mouth, unable to tear his eyes away from the words. His phone buzzed again in his hand.

_'If inconvenient, come anyway.'_

His phone clattered to the floor, and John doubled over, shaking violently. He felt like he was going to be sick. Was this seriously happening right now? Who was tormenting him like this? The array of questions collided into each other inside his brain, and he whimpered. Then, a larger one immediately silenced them all.

Should he go?

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He needed to think. He needed to be levelheaded. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind slowly, slipping into his practices he would do before a raid in Afghanistan. He clenched his fists and finally stood. Silently and efficiently, he dressed, picked up his gun, and made sure it was fully loaded. He slipped it into the waistband of his jeans. With it in its home against the small of his back, he was suddenly calm. Pulling open the bedside table drawer, he got out a spare magazine and, pushed in the back corner and tucked under a book, his key from 221B. He had never had the heart to get rid of it, and he doubted Mrs. Hudson would have changed the locks. He slipped them into his pocket, nodded and squared his shoulders, and left Mary's flat.

Getting a cab was easy. He practically barked his destination at the driver, who blinked at him but shrugged and took off. He hands were still fisted, and he stared out the window at nothing in particular as he made the drive to Baker Street. The closer they got, the more his heart pounded. He didn't know if he was ready for what awaited him back at the old flat. There were a lot of possibilities, and he didn't know which was most likely.

When the cab stopped, he wordlessly gave the cabbie his fare and stepped out. A shuddering break escaped him as he stood in front of that familiar door. He tried to keep his hand steady as he unlocked the door, with little success. It finally have though, and he stepped past the threshold. Nothing had changed. He couldn't help but smile. He glanced down the hall, then up the stairs. The door to the flat was cracked open. Hair standing on end, he took them slowly. One by one, one stair closer to whatever fate awaited him. He bit his lip once he stood at the door, doubts kicking in. On the other side, he heard the faintest of creaks of the floorboards. Muscles tense, he slipped his hand up his jacket to pull out his gun, checking its' ready, and held it out in front of him. He used the tip of the barrel to push the door open, eyes darting around, alert.

The furniture was coveted in white sheets. The mantel and bookshelves were empty. Apart from that, nothing had changed. Even that damn yellow smile was still on the wall. Another creak, to his left. He turned rigidly. In the kitchen. Moving forward at a snail's pace, he peered in the room. A figure moved, black suit. He gripped the gun tighter, ready. Finally, he stepped into the light, clearing his throat, hardly registering who was in front of him. Everything stopped.

Wait. The figure in front of him was tall and lanky. He had black, curly hair. John's eyes widened. No. It wasn't possible. The man in front of him turned. Piecing blue eyes with hints of green stared into his. Porcelain skin... John was aware of his mouth hanging open. The grip on his gun slacked some, his whole body shaking. No. It couldn't be. He was dead. He was...

"Hello, John."


	8. Chapter 8

The air was thick in the dark flat. Sherlock's eyes swept over John's frame, taking in his appearance. Grey hairs mixed in with his bright blonde now, a mixture of age and most likely stress. His jumper was somewhat baggy, so he had clearly lost weight. The bags under his eyes gave away his lack of sleep. He was having nightmares again. The limp was back, as well as the tremor in his hand. He was seeing Ella again.

A clatter echoed off the walls as his gun, still the Sig Sauer he always had, went crashing to the ground. Sherlock followed it before his eyes flicked back up to the other man's face. His eyes were wide and glossy, holding back tears. His mouth was parted slightly in shock, and Sherlock found himself staring at his lips longer than he should have. Taking a deep breath, he took a step forward. John immediately took a step back, and started shaking his head. Sherlock frowned.

"John..."

"No." His voice was harsh and shaken. He continued to back up until he ran into the wall. "No. This can't be."

"I assure you, it is," he whispered, frozen in place. He had no idea how to handle this. He kept his face calm, but his mind was racing, running through all possibilities and how to react to each of them.

"No. You. You were dead. I saw it. You jumped."

"I did jump, yes. But I did not die."

John laughed then, and Sherlock would have been relieved, except the tone and force of the laugh was wrong. It was harsh.

"You're angry." He couldn't keep himself from saying it. John gaped at him.

"Angry? Angry, Sherlock?! You've got to be fucking kidding me. I saw you fall. I felt your pulse. You were DEAD, Sherlock. I mourned you. I was still mourning you today. I went to your grave for hours..." John faded out, the fight leaving his voice, but not his posture. Tears were falling down his cheeks silently, and he was shaking.

"I know," Sherlock whispered, glancing down at the floor. He looked up again when he noticed movement, John limping across the room and towards the door. He moved again, trying to catch up with him. He reached out and caught the corner of John's jacket, pulling him into a halt in the doorway. "John, wait."

John was frozen solid. The next few moments that went by seemed to drag on, before he turned his head and looked at Sherlock. His expression was one of sheer devastation. There was so much pain behind those eyes. Betrayal. Sherlock met his gaze, unwavering, feeling him tremble under his touch. Then, the moment was over. John yanked out of his grip and shook his head.

"I can't do this." His voice broke, and he turned and left, slamming the door shut in Sherlock's face. He stood there, the one frozen now, letting everything sink in. He tried slipping into his Mind Palace, knowing not to follow the other man right now. He was lucky John hadn't decked him - that was one of the things he was prepared for. So he tried calming his thoughts, trying to ignore the itchy cravings that whispered at him to give in.

It would be so much easier to handle everything. All he had to do was take out the syringe... He pulled out the small box and stared at it in his hands. Pursing his lips tightly, he dropped it back in his coat pocket. Not now. He had to force himself not to.

It would only make the current situation that much worse.

* * *

The next hour was a blur. When John started to pay attention, he found himself in the park. Wearily, he made his way over to a bench and collapsed on it, gripping his jacket in front of his heart tightly. His head was spinning and he still couldn't breathe. There were so many emotions inside him fighting for dominance. He was angry, oh he was so angry. He was in pain - he felt like he had been betrayed. Deep down, he was relieved, though that emotion was losing the battle right now.

So Sherlock wasn't dead. The past two years had been a lie. His best friend deceived him. He put him through hell. God, did Sherlock even realize how close John had been to killing himself? Probably, he thought with a snort. The bastard knew everything. Had he been getting all those text messages John had sent? Not once caring to think 'Hey, maybe I should reply'.

John had so many questions. He had a right to the answers. But could he go back there? He honestly didn't know. No, he couldn't go back there. Not right now. Where could he go? Home, maybe. Mary would still be asleep, so he could get to bed undisturbed. She would see him in the morning though... John didn't think he could quite handle being around anyone at the moment. Staying on this park bench, however, would get him sick, so he had to make a decision.

Gripping his cane tightly, he stood and walked to where he could hail a cab. May as well go home. He sighed, trying to shut everything out on the ride home, and collapsed into the empty bed with even his shoes and coat still on.

He proceeded to not sleep for the rest of the night.

* * *

Sherlock slumped in his chair, flipping his phone back and forth in his hand absentmindedly. For the first time in a long time, he was at a loss at what to do. It would only take a few deductions to figure out all possible places John had gone to, but he couldn't give himself the push to do it. Probably because he knew. He knew chasing John down would do no good. John needed time to process what had just happened, and as infuriating as it was, Sherlock knew he had to give it to him. His phone buzzed in his hand, pulling him out of his thoughts

_'Things didn't go so well, I assume. -MH'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance.

_'Sod off, Mycroft. -SH'_

_'What, no happy reunion? -MH'_

Sherlock dropped his phone into his lap and stared at the wall, irritated. He had no doubt Mycroft knew exactly how everything went. There was no need for him to be so annoying about it all. His phone buzzed again.

_'Give him time, Sherlock. He needs time. -MH'_

'I'm not an idiot. I know he needs time. Why do you think I'm still sitting here? -SH'

_'He'll come around. -MH'_

Sherlock snorted to himself. Would John come around? It's not like he deserved it. Sure, it was what he had to do, and he would never regret the actions he took. That didn't erase what it did to John, though, and he knew that. As much as people liked to treat him like he knew nothing about human reaction, he did. He had especially learned a lot over the last two years. Steepling his fingers, he pressed them against his mouth and leaned back into the cushions, closing his eyes and thinking.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay, and the shorter chapter. My brain likes to do this thing where it has so much it wants ****me to do and focus on even though it's not quite time yet. The initial reveal has given me more difficulty than expected. However, I'm looking forward to the full reunion coming up soon. So bear with me! As always, thank you for all your kind words and love. It gives me warm fuzzies in my stomach and makes me keep on trucking. :3**


	9. Chapter 9

**As thanks for you lovely patient people, here****'s what I think is the longest chapter yet! ^_^**

* * *

John hadn't gotten a wink of sleep that night. At one point he finally shed his jacket and shoes, but never bothered to put his pjs back on either. He has been battling with so many emotions throughout the night it was overwhelming.

Embarrassing as it was, he had spent a good amount of time laying there crying. He had barely been able to breathe. When he had finally calmed down enough he had almost fallen asleep, but the impending nightmares and the visual of a very not dead Sherlock standing in front of him had jerked him wide awake again. He tried to make tea at some point in the night. It failed miserably when his anger spiked again and he threw the mug against the wall. He didn't know how it shattering hadn't woken Mary up, but thankfully it hadn't. He grimaced as he cleaned it up - he'd have to buy her a new one...

He was back in bed by the time Mary woke up. He could hear her half-awake shuffling as she put the kettle on, and it almost made him smile. Before she left the flat she cracked the door open to peek in on him, and John pretended to still be asleep. He knew last night's encounter would still be all over his face and he couldn't bear to try and put words to it yet.

He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed a few hours later when a thought occurred him. He reached over to retrieve his cell from the small table and opened the text window he had opened so many times before.

_'So have you been getting any texts from me? -JW'_

His phone pinged back almost immediately. He stared at the duvet under him for a moment longer before bringing himself to open the response.

_'Yes. -SH'_

He gripped the duvet tightly, seething. What did he expect? Of course the great Sherlock Holmes would see those texts. Probably every single one of them. Fantastic. All that time he thought he was texting a dead man whose phone was locked up in some evidence bag at Scotland Yard. But of course he would keep the bloody phone number. He shut his eyes tightly, taking deep breaths, trying to calm some of the rage radiating through him. His phone pinged again. He glanced at it reluctantly.

_'Its nice to hear from you. -SH'_

A pain shot through his chest, all the breath knocked out of him just like it had last night. His phone slipped out of his hand and bounced on the bed. Probably good, since there was a good chance he would've thrown and broken it too. The poor teacup had been bad enough. He ran his hands over his face roughly.

He had been dreaming if scenarios like this for two years. Now that it was reality, why was he having such a hard time with it all?

* * *

_'I can't tell what's going on. -SH'_

Lestrade sighed at the newest text. Sherlock had been texting him almost frantically all damn day.

_'What do you mean?'_ he texted back.

_'I mean I don't know what's going on. With John. It's infuriating. -SH'_

Sally glanced at him from the next room as he groaned out loud. He didn't really have time to focus on this right now, he had so much paperwork from the last case to finish up and get filed.

_'You'll have to deal. I guarantee you he's beyond freaked. He needs time.'_

_'Everyone's been saying that. -SH'_

_'Well, that's because it's true. Sometimes even us normal people know what we're talking about. Stop getting hysterical. He just found out last night. It hasn't even been 24 hours!'_

_'I am not hysterical. I am never hysterical. -SH'_

Lestrade snorted to himself. He could practically hear the disdain dripping from those words.

_'Just leave it for now.'_

He put his phone down and turned his attention back to the papers, signing his name here and writing comments there. When his phone buzzed again he wanted to scream. To his surprise, though, the sender wasn't Sherlock.

_'Greg. You free tonight? I need a pint something bad. Maybe three. Or twelve. -JW'_

He smiled. Speak of the devil.

_'Sure thing mate. Meet you at, say, 7? Usual place?'_

Then he opened Sherlock's message thread back up.

_'Take a deep breath. I'm seeing John later. I'll make sure he's okay.'_

_'Update me frequently and accurately. -SH' _

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

_'Also, you're use of double punctuation is unnecessary and I'd like to request you to cease such habits. Again. -SH'_

Groaning again, Lestrade tossed his phone in the top desk drawer. He refused to spy for Sherlock, but relaying a few things from one friend to another would be all right.

* * *

John got to the bar early, needing to get out of the flat. He grabbed their usual small table facing one of the big televisions, where they used to sit for hours and watch football games together. Manchester was playing against Chelsea right now, and they were up by one. He watched absentmindedly as he waited after going over to the bar and getting a pint.

Lestrade walked in about fifteen minutes later. John flagged him down and he waved back, walked over to the bar, and sat down across from him with two fresh pints. John slid his empty glass aside and accepted one with a weak smile.

"Geez mate, you look like shit," he remarked. John chuckled softly.

"Hello to you too Greg."

They both laughed. It felt weird to laugh; John couldn't help but admit to himself. It was half-hearted, and he could tell that Greg picked up on that. They fell into companionable silence for a few minutes as John ran his fingertips across the rim of the glass and Greg cursed over Chelsea losing to Manchester.

"Damn Man U. They just drive me crazy sometimes," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "John. What's going on? Everything okay with you and Mary?"

_'If only it were that simple,'_ he thought to himself. He would prefer a domestic dispute to this mess any day.

"No, Mary's fine. She's as sweet and understanding as ever. I don't feel like I deserve her, to be honest." He took a big swig of his beer, already about down to the bottom of the glass. His head had started swimming in that good, very tipsy way. That's what he gets for not eating today. "It's... I don't know, Greg. I feel like I've gone off the deep end. I haven't even been able to figure out how to put words to it."

Greg was silent for a moment as he regarded him, and then he nodded.

"Right then," he said. "I don't want to force anything out of you. So we won't talk about whatever it is. Not until you're ready to, yeah?"

John nodded, a sigh of relief escaping him. This was one of the many reasons he had become so close to the Detective Inspector over the years. With all the insanity in his life, Greg had been able to ground him. They were good friends. Football-watching, beer-drinking, somewhat normal friends. He wanted to talk to him about the shit storm he had just walked into. He just couldn't get the words to exist yet.

"How're the girls?" he asked, wanting to have a semi-normal conversation. Greg sighed and took a long drink of his beer before answering.

"They're doing great. Elizabeth is getting straight A's and she refuses to stop growing up, no matter how much I beg. Anna just started a little football league, and Jesus John, she's a bloody natural." He beamed with pride, which made John smile.

"Lizzie's almost out of Secondary school, right?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded. "And Anna's about to start it. God, Lizzie's gonna be going to College soon. It's mind blowing."

"How are they handling everything?"

"Better than me, I honestly think. Anna is still too young to really understand what's happening, so that's hard. I think Lizzie's knows why we split, but she's never actually come out and said it."

He fell silent, nursing his beer some more. John said nothing, just letting them sit there. He knew finalizing the divorce was taking its toll on Greg. He hated that for him. He was such a good father, and having his kids taken like this was awful.

"Christina got the better half of custody," he told John, his voice cracking slightly. "Because of my job. My awful hours. I'll get them for sure every other weekend. We were in court finalizing the paperwork a few days ago. The last of it, I think. I hope."

Greg ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. John stood, wobbling for a second as he tried to center his gravity, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Another round?"

Greg nodded.

* * *

It was late. Really late. Too late. He was wasted.

He vaguely remembered Mary calling him not too long ago. How long ago was it? He didn't know. She had been worried. He said he was out with Greg. Tried to say, anyway. He couldn't remember.

Looking around, the world spinning, John noticed that there were only a handful of people in the pub apart from the two of them. He should really get home.

"I should… Pr'bly leave." Greg was the first to bring it up. He was drunk too. Not quite as drunk as John, but still pretty drunk. He nodded and the world spun again. A bit not good. He needed to stop doing that.

"Yeaaaah," John sighed. Greg braced himself, putting his hands flat on the table, trying to stand but not quite getting there yet. Somehow, his drunken haze thought this was the best time for the words to finally take shape.

"Sherlock's alive," he blurted, his expression stricken with shock that he actually said it. Greg froze, staring down at the table, his eyes going wide. John could feel his face getting hot. Was it the alcohol, or was he about to break down again? He really couldn't tell. "He's… He's alive, Greg."

"H-how…" Greg began, but trailed off, brow furrowing in concentration. The admission sobered the air around them immensely, and even though his head was still swimming in every direction (he was going to have the worst hangover in the morning), the weight of the words seemed to ground them both back into reality.

"I got a message. Go to Baker Street. Like an idiot, I did. He was there." His voice cracked as he recalled yesterday. "He faked it all, Greg. He lied. He's home."

Silence followed. John wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting, but it hadn't been that. He blinked, staring at the other man, desperately wanting to know what was going through his mind. Greg's face was practically a blank slate. It made him even more unable to try and judge what was happening, which was not fair because he was so not sober.

"I know," Greg sighed, speaking so softly John almost didn't catch the words. But he did. Oh, he did. And it was most definitely NOT the response he was expecting.

"You _know_?" he asked forcefully, trying not to raise his voice. He failed miserably. Blame the alcohol. "What. Do you **MEAN**. You **KNOW**."

He saw Greg wince. He almost felt bad. But until he got some kind of explanation, he wouldn't feel bad.

"When you…" Greg's voice cracked, shaking a bit. "When you were hurt, in the hospital. Sherlock, he… He was there. He was the one who rushed to your side in the flat. You didn't hallucinate it. That was real. He found me right before it all happened, that's when I found out."

"Why the fuck did you lie to me then? At the hospital. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he said you were in danger. That you couldn't know. It killed me, I tried so hard to make him tell you." Greg rested his head in his hand and stared over at him. John was angry. Why was everyone lying to him?

"I need to go home," he said abruptly. He stood, which was a horrible idea, and had to grab the edge of the table to keep him from falling flat on his arse. Not as sobered up as his mind made him think, then. Greg stood just as quickly, reaching out, wobbly but standing. John refused to accept his help, shaking his head.

"John, I'm sorry. I couldn't put you in danger. You're my friend."

"Friends tell people important things," he snapped. He knew he sounded ridiculous, and he didn't care. Hurt flashed across Greg's features, but was quickly replaced with what looked like a form of acceptance.

"At least let me get you a cab, make sure you get home safe."

John refused this, too. He couldn't ride in a cab. Time would pass too quickly, and he'd probably get sick.

"No," he said, shaking his head slightly. "No, I need air. I'll walk home."

"Will you be okay? Are you sure you're alright to walk home?"

No, he wasn't sure. But he wasn't about to admit that to a D.I. of the Met. Or one of his only friends. It was just what he needed right now.

"I need this, Greg. I'll be fine. Please." Greg nodded reluctantly. They said their goodbyes, which were somewhat strained, more on John's part than Greg's. He was trying so hard to keep himself in check.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he started to walk, slowly. The cool, London air was already helping some. And so he walked. His mind was numb, and he wasn't really thinking about anything specifically. It was all at least giving him a chance to calm down and get things straightened out in his head. He walked for forever, and when he finally looked up, his head was spinning all over again.

He had walked to Baker Street. A bitter laugh escaped him. He had drunk WAY too much alcohol. He shifted awkwardly, staring at the too familiar door, unsure of what to do. He was way too far from Mary's flat to get there, and he doubted he could get a cab this late. He chewed on his bottom lip, unable to believe that he was really considering this. His alcohol-fuzzed mind could not stop thinking about sleep though, and it was that fuzz that forced his feet to move forward and climb the steps up to 221B.

He stood at the door with his hand on the handle, frozen. His heart was beating in his ears. He honestly didn't know if he wanted Sherlock to be in the flat or not. Taking a deep, shaking breath, he pushed the door open slowly. He poked his head in, and he felt a bit ridiculous about doing so, but he was still pretty damn drunk, so there you have it. Much to his relief, there was no sign of movement in the kitchen or living room. So in he stepped, shutting the door behind him, and slowly made his way to the couch and sat down.

He sighed as he hit the cushions. Part of him was going to try going up to his old room, hoping a bed was still there, but he knew now that wasn't going to happen. So the couch it was. He stretched out, his back flush against the cushions, and had barely taken his jacket off and put his head down and he was dead to the world.

* * *

Sherlock was laying on his back, in bed, fingers steepled together under his chin. It was his classic 'Leave me alone, I'm thinking about more important things' pose he had adopted very early on in his life. His eyes opened and slid over to the nightstand, locking on the object of his thoughts. John's gun.

He sighed in annoyance. This was a rare instance where he regretted reading into an object. The gun was very smooth around the handle. Smoother than before he had left. It was way too smooth... That clearly meant John had been holding it a lot. This puzzled him at first. What need did he have for the weapon in his life after Sherlock? He had settled down, gotten a girlfriend, worked in the clinic... No solving crimes or chasing criminals anymore. So why?

It had all clicked at once, and the result disturbed him. Smooth in one specific area from repetitive touching, holding, turning over in one's palm. Heavy, loaded. John's scent mixed with metal and smoke from past discharges. Smell strongest at the end of the barrel. He found it hard to breath. John had pressed this gun to his head. He had pressed it into his hair, where it would give off the strongest scent. More than once.

John had wanted to kill himself. He had gotten so close, so many times.

Grimacing, he shut his eyes again. This was his fault. This was a result of what he'd done. John never knew. Never understood that Sherlock did what he had to do. To save him. To save everyone that mattered to him.

John had sat in his bed and turned this gun over in his hands, and wanted to end his life. Would he have, if Sherlock had taken longer to take down Moriarty's web? Would he have come back to London and come face to face with that kind of knowledge?

He jumped out of bed, needing to move. Needing to do something. He was getting utterly stir crazy. Lestrade wouldn't give him a case yet. It was so tedious. He needed something to DO. He paced around his room, supposing he could get a fresh cadaver from Molly and run a series of experiments with acid... It had been a while since that last group of tests, and they had been very rudely interrupted. He had been unable to conclude them all. Surely his notebook from it was still in the flat somewhere.

That settled it. He had to find that notebook. He'd text Molly in a bit, maybe pop down to the morgue. He exited the bedroom in a fluid motion and headed for the living room to rifle through the bookshelves, when he stopped dead in his tracks.

John was on the couch. He was curled up, asleep, and snoring slightly. Sherlock's eyes widened, his entire body frozen; even breathing had ceased. He blinked, but John was still there. He rubbed his eyes roughly and looked again. John was still there. He pinched himself just fit good measure, as ridiculous of a gesture it was, but John was still there.

Slowly, he made his way across the living room, taking in every piece of information this scene was giving him. John's jacket haphazardly thrown on the floor. Shoes still on his feet. Brow furrowed in his sleep. Leaning closer, the faint scent of alcohol and cigarettes around him. That's right. He had gone to the pub with Lestrade. Lestrade, who not once texted him that evening, nor this morning. He raised an eyebrow as he considered the scenarios.

John had gotten drunk. Presumably to cope with their meeting. He was here, so they went to the pub nearby they used to frequent before his supposed death. They did not taxi together at the end of the evening. That opened up two possibilities. One, Lestrade got called to work. More unlikely, however, with the lack of communication they'd had. Two, John revealed his new discovery and Lestrade admitted to already knowing. John got angry. Much more likely.

So why Baker Street? He reached down and touched his jacket: slightly chilled, and smelled of the London air. Ah. John walked. To clear his head, something he had always done when angry at him as well. Walking, mixed with intoxication, made habits take over logical thought. Hence, his muscles returned him home, to Baker Street.

He crouched there, watching John sleep. He wanted so badly for things to be ok. He wanted everything to go back to normal. He has missed John more than he ever really wanted to admit to anyone. But even if he was forgiven, would they go back to normal? He knew John was serious with Mary. He was unsure things would ever be the same.

He stood and fetched a blanket from his bedroom. Bringing it into the living room, he draped it over John's sleeping figure and paused to run his slender fingers through that sandy blonde hair. He noticed they gray that was now mixed in. It looked good.

His final touch was to bring an empty bucket over that he'd found in the closet and set it next to the couch. Just in case. If John had drunk as much as Sherlock suspected, he might very well need it once he finally wakes up.


	10. Chapter 10

John woke with a groan. He hadn't opened his eyes and the pain shooting through his head was already searing. He felt dizzy. Yeah, worst hangover ever. He rolled over to his other slide slowly and his stomach lurched. Oh god.

He forced his eyes open and jolted off the couch. He darted for the bathroom, somehow not tripping over anything, and luckily made it in front of the toilet before he started throwing up. He gripped the porcelain tightly until he was spent, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he was panting slightly. Shaking, he stood up and stumbled over to the sink to rinse out his mouth.

Once he was sure he'd gotten everything out of his system, he slowly made his way out of the bathroom. It was then that it hit him where he was. Eyes wide, he stared at the Baker Street flat, unsure what to do. He almost felt sick again. His eyes shot over to where he had woken up, where he noticed a few things. There was a bucket on the floor next to where his head had been. He had thrown off an all too familiar bright orange blanket when he got up. His shoes and jacket had been taken off, and his phone was charging on the coffee table.

He bit his lip, slowly walking back over to the couch. It could only have been Sherlock. He had done all of that? The familiar tightness returned to his chest. Why? Slowly, he made his way back over to the couch and sat down shakily. He grabbed his phone and groaned. Mary.

_'Hey, I'm all right. Got a bit drunk last night, slept over at a friend's. I'll be home soon. Sorry if I worried you.'_

He sent the text to her and was so absorbed that he didn't notice the presence next to him. A deep rumble, clearing of a throat, made him jump. With wide, frantic eyes, his head shot up and he found himself staring at Sherlock Holmes, holding out a mug. He stared. Icy eyes stared down at him and it sent shivers down his spine.

"Tea?" Sherlock finally asked after a moment, lifting the cup for emphasis. John was numb. He felt ridiculous, but his mouth was parted slightly and he was completely rigid. His eyes shifted down to the cup and back up to that pale, sharp face. His mind was frozen. After a moment, Sherlock rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh and put the cup on the table in front of him. John almost laughed at the too familiar expression.

He stared down at his hands, and the cup sitting in front of him. In the corner of his vision, the figure that was next to him moved fluidly to the other side of the room. When John finally forced himself to peek up, Sherlock was cross-legged in his chair, hands pressed together under his chin. His head was turned towards the kitchen, but somehow he could still feel that all-seeing gaze fixed on him. He shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he reached forward and picked up the still hot tea, holding it to his lips and taking a sip. He bit back a sob as he realized instantly that it was made exactly as he preferred. Before... Sherlock never remembered how he took his tea before.

"T-thank you," he croaked softly. No response. He focused on the tea, convinced he had spoken too softly to be heard, but then...

"You're welcome John."

John went stiff at the sound of that voice saying his name. Heat prickled around his eyes again. He distracted himself momentarily as a text message came in; a response from Mary.

'_It's okay. See you tonight? Everything okay darling?'_

He wasn't sure whether to reply or not. He felt he needed to, but had no idea what to say. There was no way he could be completely honest. He wasn't okay. He was far from okay. He was sitting there, drinking tea that a dead man made him. He contemplated, and then typed slowly, aware of the pair of eyes trained on him the entire time.

'_Everything's fine. See you later, dear.'_

He dropped his phone on the table with a clatter and drained the rest of his tea. His head was still swimming, but the liquid had helped settle his stomach a bit. Finally, he forced his head up, and his eyes automatically locked with Sherlock's. Pain and anger were swelling through him again.

"What the ever loving fuck, Sherlock," he finally said, voice shaking. The man's facial expression didn't change, and that almost made him angrier.

"John, I know you're upset-"

"Upset?!" he almost yelled, interrupting whatever he was about to say. John didn't care. He didn't want to hear it. He laughed incredulously, throwing his hands up. "Of course I'm fucking upset. I'm pissed off. I don't even know where the fuck to begin with you right now."

He was met with silence. Finally, Sherlock looked away from him, and was staring down at where his hands were folded on his lap. John felt a bizarre sense of satisfaction at that. He hadn't even begun to explain how miserable he had been, and he had no idea if the other man would even get it all, but he didn't really care. He shook his head, staring down at the empty teacup, and they fell into an awkward, pressurized quiet. John had so much he wanted so say next, and no idea where to go with it all. Surprisingly, Sherlock broke the silence next.

"I can explain," he said, his voice unnaturally quieter than it normally used to be. "I did what I had to do, John."

"You lied," he croaked, refusing to look up at him. "You forced me to see…"

"I had no other choice, John. You had to believe it. You had to think that I had killed-"

"No, Sherlock. Shut up. I don't want to listen to this right now. I don't give a shit why you did it. I can't believe, out of everyone, that you couldn't confide in me. After everything we had gone through together. I was your friend, Sherlock. Your partner. How dare you not trust me with whatever fucking scheme you had put together."

He stood abruptly, ignoring the throbbing ache in his head, fists clenched. Sherlock's head jerked up to stare at him, eyes wide, and almost scared-looking. But John was sure he'd imagined it.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said, teeth clenched. "And then I'm going to leave."

"John, please," Sherlock said, starting to stand as well. John held out a hand, making him freeze, knees bent, hand still on the arm of his chair.

"Stop, Sherlock. Just stop. Don't say anything. There is nothing you can say to me right now. Maybe at some point, there will be. You damn well will explain yourself to me. But not now. So just… let me take a shower. Please."

There was no response from the younger man. John turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against it, shaking. He shut his eyes; a few stray tears sliding down his cheeks. This wasn't happening. He didn't know what to do. He was having the worst inward battle ever, and it was getting worse with each passing moment.

Turning the shower on, he slid his clothes off and stepped in, lifting his face up into the water and sighing as the warmth surrounded him. There was something comforting about the water pressure in this flat that made him feel like he was home. And that thought made him angry all over again. Bollocks.

* * *

Sherlock sat there, listening to the water running on the other side of the flat. He closed his eyes, letting those sounds wash over him, and for a moment it felt like any normal day from before. John showering before going off to the clinic, any moment Lestrade could barge in with a case. He exhaled through his nose and stood. No. That was not how things were anymore.

Honestly, what had he expected? That all would be instantly forgiven and things would go back to normal? He knew it wouldn't. He had known that since Mycroft had first told him about Mary. He knew, in that moment, he had lost John Watson; his blogger. His flatmate. His friend. Yet, as they were here now, he had such a desire to explain himself. He had to let John know why he did what he did. Maybe, if he knew the truth, things could change.

It was irrational. He was well aware of that, and it frustrated him. He'd never had such a strong desire for another human being before. The human race was tedious and unintelligent. But John had always been different. If he hadn't, Sherlock never would've faked his death to begin with. That alone spoke volumes to how different the doctor was. All those months away, every person he killed and every mile he travelled, only solidified that fact. He didn't understand it. These feelings, these emotions, they made no sense. He'd considered talking to Mycroft, or even Lestrade about it, but his pride wouldn't let him. He didn't know what to make of all of this, but the only person he felt comfortable talk to about it was the one person he couldn't. How ironic the world was.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't realize the shower had stopped, or that there was motion throughout the flat until John appeared again in his vision. He tilted his head back to look at him. He was wearing the same clothes as before. Of course. He had no clothes in this flat anymore. His hair was darker now where it was wet, freshly toweled strands sticking every which way. His gait was more confident, meaning the hangover was fading. His limp was not so evident, which only continued to prove how psychosomatic it was. He opened his mouth to say something about it, but some strange small part in his brain hushed him. So he shut his mouth again, watching every muscle movement and every breath John took, all of them screaming out some sort of answer to him. Finally, after stepping into his shoes and picking his cell phone off the table, he stopped moving, and those deep blue eyes met his.

"Thank you for the tea, and for letting me sleep on the couch," he said stiffly. Sherlock said nothing at first. John's voice was trembling again, his fists clenched. He was holding back so much emotion, and yet Sherlock could still see every piece of it. He tested the waters and stood, slowly. He noticed a hitch in John's breath, but nothing else changed. His face was that of a soldier, an expression he had never lost.

"John," he began softly. The shorter man shut his eyes tightly, as if hearing him speak his name was physically painful. Sherlock's head tilted to the side. He was unsure of what to make of that kind of reaction. However, he didn't move to interrupt him again like he did previously, so he took that as a good sign.

"Any time," he made himself say. It wasn't what he wanted to say. There was so much else he'd rather say, so much he_ needed _to say. But somehow, whether it was that tiny part of his brain that controlled the feelings surrounding John, or if it was the way the man was holding himself, he knew now was not that time.

Without another word, John turned and made the trip down the stairs. Sherlock watched him go, but did not follow. He listened to those heavy, uneven footsteps on each wooden stair. He heard the door creak open, and the sounds of London fill the building. Then, he heard the slam of the door, and everything was quiet again.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there in silence, unable to move. Finally, he took a few steps, going over and sitting on the couch, right where John had sat. He picked up the blanket and held it close, the smell of smoke and alcohol and_ John_ radiating from it. He closed his eyes and let the smell wash over him, quelling the uneasy feelings shaking him to the bone. Sighing, he dropped the blanket and reclined, steepling his hands under his chin, thinking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an all too familiar jacket crumpled up on the floor. He shut his eyes again with a sigh. Well, that would be an excuse to see him again, at least.

* * *

John didn't realize until around dinnertime that night that he had left his jacket over at Baker Street. He cursed inwardly, but didn't let it show on his face. He sat there quietly, eating the pasta Mary had made, listening to her talk about her day. He responded where it was required with the right head nod or small laugh, but he was only half listening. He couldn't get Sherlock out of his head. It wasn't fair. Just when he was trying to pull his life together, that infuriating bastard sauntered right back into it, shattering everything.

But was that right? Had he really started to pull his life together? Yeah, he was in a great, serious relationship with a gorgeous woman, and he knew every day how luck he was for that. But it wasn't enough. They didn't sleep in the same bed. He didn't want to sleep in the same bed (something he had still never told her, and probably never would). He went through the motions of daily life, working at a clinic he could barely stand, never feeling like he was contributing anything. And more than once, as he sat in bed, he considered taking his own life.

So no, his life was not at all put together. He had tried convincing himself he had finally gotten over Sherlock, but the truth was he never had. Somehow, the return of the dead man made him fully realize that. But what could he do? No matter how upset and angry and hurt he was, every fiber of his being wanted to through himself back into that life. He wanted to go back to Baker Street, solve crimes, put his life at risk catching criminals and saving his flatmate. He wanted to hear violin music at 3 in the morning and walk home to the smell of formaldehyde. For god's sake, he wanted to open the fridge and have to navigate past a container of fingers or a jar of some unexplainable liquid. But he couldn't. As shaky and unfulfilling as it was, he had built a new life for himself. He'd had to. Besides, no matter how hard he yearned for that life, he still really had no idea if he could ever forgive Sherlock for what he'd done. And if he couldn't forgive him, he could never go back to that life.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took a deep breath, pulling it out and glancing down at it as Mary went on to talk about one of her mate's new boyfriends. The message made his heart beat so loudly in his chest that he felt like it could burst, and he fucking **hated **himself for it.

'_Jacket at the flat. Can return to you at your earliest convenience. Angelo's? -SH'_


	11. Chapter 11

It had been five days since John had been in the flat. Five days without a word. Sherlock had hoped that he would at least return or ask to meet to get his jacket back. But there was nothing. Once a day, only once, he would send a text. A part of him wondered if this one would be the one that would merit a response. But it never did. There was irony in what was sent. He used to be the recipient of those kinds of texts, and he always ignored them. Now, here he was, the sender, also being ignored. The universe was a cruel bitch. Crossing his legs, he reached out and snatched his phone off the table. He opened the text thread to John and typed swiftly.

'_Dinner? -SH'_

He knew tonight would be no different. Yet he sent the text anyway. Then, sighing, he leaped out of his chair and began pacing back and fourth.

The issue with John Watson was not his only problem right now. He was still effectively dead to most of the world. This meant he was utterly bored. No calls from Lestrade, no clients at his door from his website, nothing. It was driving him crazy. He'd been a flurry through the apartment, effectively driving Mrs. Hudson insane. She took it with a smile, though, more tolerant than he remembered her being. Something about just being glad he was back. Sentiment.

However, what he'd been able to acquire from Molly at the morgue and the experiments he had started were holding his attention less and less as the hours went on. He needed a case. A proper case. So he texted Lestrade, figuring if he pestered him enough he'd finally bring him back on.

And so he waited. Walking over to the window, he glanced out at the street below. Then, he reached over and picked up his violin. Closing his eyes, he ran the bow across the strings experimentally, before taking off into song. This piece was new, original, something he had started to work on in his head while he was away. Only now was he able to form the notes for real, work out where he had been stuck. He grabbed a pen and scribbled across composition paper as he played, recording it down, committing changes to memory.

He waited. He thought. He composed.

* * *

John's phone chimed and he shut his eyes, exhaling through his nose. He knew exactly what it said without even having to look at it. Every evening, at the exact same time, he had been receiving this text since his night at Baker Street. And every evening, he ignored it, as he would again tonight. Yes, he wanted his jacket back, but he couldn't bring himself to agree to the proposition given to him in order to get back said jacket.

So again his phone went untouched, and he kept his attention on the food that was in front of him.

"Are you not going to check that?" Mary asked, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked at her, brow wrinkled.

"Check what?" he asked. She sighed and gave him a look.

"Your phone, John. Your phone that just went off. What if it's the clinic?"

"It's not," he muttered, shaking his head and shoving a fork full of pasta into his mouth. He stared down at the table as he chewed, trying to put it out of his mind. It was worse now that she was talking about it too. He still had yet to tell her about his not-so-dead ex-best friend. Across from him, Mary leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, regarding him skeptically.

"How do you know it's not?"

"I just do," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If it was the clinic, they'd call."

"Then who in the world keeps texting you? Every night now, and I never see you pay attention to it."

John closed his eyes, setting his fork down on the plate and gripping the napkin in his lap. He didn't want to talk about this. He really wished she'd just bloody drop it. He didn't want to tell her anything about the texts, or why he was ignoring them, because then he'd have to talk about him. He'd have to talk about why he'd gotten so fucking wasted the other night, and who's flat he was in. He'd have to talk about how fucked up everything was. He wasn't ready for any of it.

"John," she huffed. Christ, she just wouldn't let it go. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands.

"Mary, its nothing. Please. I don't want to talk about it." John realized he was probably being a lot snippier than he should be. It was clear in her response too. She stood, shoving her chair back, and snatched her empty plate off the table and stalked over to the sink.

"Clearly it's not nothing, John Watson," she snapped. He groaned inwardly. She was using his full name. Great, he had botched it now. "If it was nothing, you wouldn't be acting this way to me. But if you don't want to talk to me about it, fine. Be that way."

She stalked past him, leaving the kitchen and walking across the living room.

"I'm going to bed," she called to him, walking into her room and slamming the door shut behind her.

John groaned, shoving his plate away from him on the table. Leaning his elbow on the table, he held his head in his hand as he pulled out his phone.

'_Dinner? -SH'_

He chuckled harshly. He knew that's what it would say. Again. Sherlock was a persistent asshole. Opening the text thread, he stared at every one he'd gotten over the past five days. Five days, five texts. Dinner? God help him, he did not want to respond. He didn't want to have bloody dinner. He wanted his life together.

His life was together when him and Sherlock were flatmates. That nagging part of his brain kept telling him that. It pissed him off. The worst part about it was that it was right. As fucked up as things got every now and then, he had never been more put together than when he and Sherlock were living together. But that was before. Then there was The Fall. Everything changed. Nothing would ever be like that again. How could it? And how could dinner change anything?

Maybe it could, that part of his brain told him. He scowled, staring at the tablecloth under him. No, how could it? One would never know unless you tried. Goddamnit. He hated his mind. He picked up his phone and turned it over in his hand, countless thoughts running through his head. All that time, when he thought Sherlock to be dead, he texted him. He sent texts to him about the most inane things. Multiple times a day he would send texts to a phone he thought was locked away in Scotland Yard, words to a dead man that would never see them. Except he did see them. He saw every fucking one of them. And now that this man was texting back, he couldn't type anything.

The worst part about it all was that he wanted to text him back. He wanted to accept his invitation to dinner, to sit at their usual table by the window at Angelo's again. However, it wasn't that easy.

Why wasn't it that easy? John sighed, thumb sliding over the keys, contemplating typing a response. There was a possibility that it would be that easy. Go to dinner, get his jacket, ask Sherlock to explain everything. He felt that, more than anything, he deserved an explanation. He deserved to know why Sherlock did what he did, and why he couldn't confide in him about everything. He thought himself to be Sherlock's best friend. Why would you fake suicide in front of your best friend?

Anger rose in him again. Sherlock better have a good fucking reason for putting him through the hell he did. And it was that anger, that fire that drove him to listen to that other part of his brain and finally send a text back.

'_Angelo's? When? -JW'_

* * *

John regretted walking into Angelo's the minute he stepped in the door. Part of him was screaming to turn around and just leave, forget about whatever it is he thought this dinner would accomplish. But as the large owner came his way, beaming with his hands thrown out, he knew there was really no turning back.

"John!" Angelo shouted joyously, pulling the good doctor in for a bone-crushing hug. John grunted as the air was squeezed out of him and tentatively put his arms around to return the hug, patting his back lightly.

"Hey Angelo," he wheezed. Luckily, a moment later he was released, and he took a deep breath he only halfway realized he was holding. "It's good to see you."

"Oh, my dear boy, it is most wonderful to see you in here again. It's been too long. Haven't see you since… Well, you know…" The owner trailed off, and John shifted on his feet a bit uncomfortably, glancing down at the floor. Oh, he knew. After Sherlock's _faked_ suicide, he had practically refused to come back in here. This restaurant held too many memories, and it was far too painful. The two of them had been coming here at least once or twice a week ever since they had met. In all that time, not once had they ever paid for a meal. John, being the polite Englishman he was, always felt guilty about it, but Angelo refused to hear protest.

He glanced back up at Angelo and smiled softly, trying to steer conversation a different way. After all, he had a feeling the man's bearded jaw would be hitting the floor before too long. He had no idea the patron that would soon be sweeping into his establishment.

"So, John, what seat'll you have? Staying for dinner?"

John nodded, and glanced over to his and Sherlock's usual table over by the front window. A couple was just getting up with their check, leaving it empty for use. Angelo followed his eyesight and nodded, smiling softly. He clapped a firm hand on John's shoulder, almost knocking the wind out of him again, and steered him over to the table. After it had been wiped off diligently, John slid into the chair with his back to the window and waited. He gazed halfheartedly at the menu, trying to decide if he actually wanted to eat anything, as Angelo brought him a glass of water. He nodded in thanks and sipped it quietly.

Finally, after fifteen minutes or so (which is what he was expecting, his nerves made him show up early), the door swung open and Sherlock strode in as extravagantly as always, coat flowing behind him in the wind that trailed in after him. John glanced up and his heart clenched tightly.

_Deep breaths, John. _He thought to himself. _Deep breaths. _

Turning, Sherlock had John's coat draped over one arm, which he was in the middle of dropping on the back of a chair and opening his mouth to speak when a bizarre groan screech noise was heard from across the restaurant. The detective froze, frosty eyes going wide, but he was still staring at John. John stared back. Then, he broke first, leaning to one side and craning his neck to see past the lanky figure in front of him.

Angelo was standing, frozen, at the other end of the bar. His face was stricken, and it looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment. Then he did. As he stumbled across the building (and thank god there weren't many patrons in that night, the clumsy man was running into furniture left and right), tears slid down his cheeks. Slowly, Sherlock finally turned to face the owner, face steeled in its' normal expressionless gaze.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked in a choked voice. He skidded to a halt in front of him and just gazed for a moment, blinking, as if he didn't believe his eyes. His face had gone as white as the apron wrapped around his waist. Sherlock simply nodded.

"Yes, Angelo, it's me," he rumbled. Angelo had tears sliding down his cheeks. "Do forgive me, but I must save explanations for later. A water would be lovely."

He moved as if to turn and sit down, but he couldn't quite escape the same fate John had been subjected to. Angelo barreled into the tall man, those thick arms wrapping around his tiny waist and crushing him close. The wheezing grunt that involuntarily escaped Sherlock almost made John laugh. He covered his mouth, just watching and listening, as Angelo babbled on about how he was dead and where was he all this time and was he dreaming this couldn't be real how could he be back but oh god he'd missed him so much how was this even possible?

The embrace finally ended and Angelo bumbled off to get the requested water. Sherlock slid his coat off his shoulders, revealing his usual black suit and deep purple dress shirt, and draped it on top of John's before sitting in his usual seat across from him. Except, instead of staring out of the window like he used to always do, his eyes were fixed on John. He shifted uncomfortably. It had been two years, so he was out of practice and not used to getting scrutinized by those calculating eyes. Instead of speaking, he grasped his water and downed the rest of it, staring at the table.

"John," Sherlock spoke. John went rigid, still insisting on staring down at his hands. He bit his lip nervously, heart beating loudly in his chest. He wasn't ready for this. This had been a bad idea. He wasn't ready. His cheeks went hot and the breaths he took were too quick.

Sherlock's eyes darted back and fourth as silence enveloped them. Increased heart rate, muscles tense, jaw clenched. He could tell John was currently fighting the urge to flee. He rather hoped he would continue to fight it. He wanted the chance to explain everything. He hoped that would fix everything. He nodded at Angelo briefly as his own water was brought over, but never took his eyes off John. If it were up to him, he'd never take his eyes off John ever again. But it wasn't necessarily up to him.

"I deserve an explanation," John finally spoke, teeth clenched, voice tight. He still wouldn't look up at Sherlock. His fists were clenched as well, and shaking. He was angry. Anger was taking over the urge to flee. Sherlock supposed that was a good sign.

"Quite right, John. Yes you do," Sherlock nodded, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands together under his chin. Now he did turn his eyes to look out the window, and John found himself finally looking back up again. He watched as Sherlock prepared himself for whatever he was about to say. It gave him a moment to prepare himself for what he was about to hear.

"Moriarty. The day he came to the flat, he said he owed me a fall. He carved it into an apple: the letters I O and U. A threat, of course. However, as it went on, it took the form of more than a simple threat. It was a warning. I realized it when I saw the letters again later, spray painted on the windows of New Scotland Yard. Then, again as graffiti near Baker Street. Three warnings, three areas, three markers. It all became perfectly clear as I stood on the top of St Barts with Moriarty. I had him all figured out. I had a way to beat him. I led you to Baker Street under the pretense that Mrs. Hudson was in trouble to make sure I could play it all out, and keep you out of harm's way. On the rooftop, he revealed what I had come to realize. He organized the fall of my reputation – _he owed me a fall_ – and wanted it to be my undoing. If I did not jump off that roof, he had snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I did not jump, I would not only deal with the fallout of my reputation, but I would lose the only important people in my life."

"Three markers…" John muttered, hanging onto every word that came out of Sherlock's mouth for dear life, his anger pushed momentarily aside as he absorbed it all. "The apple for me, Scotland Yard for Greg obviously, and outside Baker Street for Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock nodded, unable to hold back the smallest of smiles at John's correct conclusion. He'd missed the way he could piece things together like that.

"Yes, exactly. Of course, I had a plan. I'd consulted with Mycroft, as much as I hate to admit it. I played along with Moriarty, leading him on, waiting for the right moment. I never got the chance. Moriarty had a trump card I had prepared for, but was hoping I wouldn't have to react to. He shot himself in the mouth. With him dead, there was no one to call off the snipers. I had to jump at this point, you see. I had no choice. On this, I had previously gone to Molly to get the paramedics, the contraptions, and the blood."

As he began to explain this portion, John felt his anger bubbling up inside of him again.

"You should have told me, Sherlock. I could have helped. You went to your own fucking brother before me?" he hissed, trying his best to keep his voice down and not shout in the restaurant. Sherlock shook his head, and it only ended up making him even angrier.

"No, John. Your reaction had to be genuine. You had a sniper trained on you. If you had been privy to what I was doing, you're fear, shock, and sorrow would not have been genuine. They would've seen right through it. Deceiving you was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had to do it. It was the only option. I faked my death, and had Molly help wheel me to the morgue and pronounce me dead. It was all orchestrated. It was all a magic trick."

_It's a trick. It's just a magic trick._

Those words. Those words had haunted John's nightmares. His eyes widened as he heard that velvety voice speak those words again, and it all clicked. Had Sherlock been trying to stress the real magic trick without actually telling him anything? He stared at the ghost of a man sitting across from him, eyes glistening with new tears that refused to fall. Sherlock gazed back, face holding an emotion John couldn't quite pinpoint.

With everything finally laid out in front of him, everything explained, he felt like he was getting a good look at Sherlock for the first time since his return. His eyes said so much more than they used to. He was tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. He was worn down and, at least in front of John, didn't have the energy to hide it. His gaze bore into him like normal, but instead of calculating and cold, John saw what he could only describe as desperation.

"So…" he started, still trying to wrap his head around everything. Sherlock hung onto every breath, every syllable, tense as could be. "So you faked it. And then you left. Two years, Sherlock. Where have you been?"

"Across the world," he answered swiftly. "Tracking down the remains of Moriarty's networks and taking them out. Making my way to the top. Ensuring your safety."

"Without me."

"John, I already told you, I couldn't tell you. It wasn't safe. Even after my fall, even after I'd left the country. If I revealed myself to you before I knew the snipers were taken care of, I'd be putting you in danger again."

"But you did."

Sherlock froze, and confusion passed through his expression momentarily. He regarded John, waiting for him to elaborate.

"When I got put in the hospital," John went on to explain. "It was you. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you, when I was passing out, but I didn't. It was really you. Lestrade told me."

Sherlock exhaled and moved to stare out of the window again, collecting his thoughts.

"Yes," he nodded. "I had tracked the network back to you. And you were in danger. So I acted."

"And then you left again," the doctor continued, anger dripping in his voice once more. "I was I the hospital thinking I hallucinated you, and there you were, and you left again. Without me."

"John, how in the world could I have done otherwise? You had built a life at this point. You had Mary. You had your job. You had things that were not I. And how was I to know that the danger had passed? I had to be sure. I had to be sure that it was over, and there was no more threat on any of you."

John stood, slamming the palms of his hands on the table and leaning over, glaring daggers at Sherlock. The taller man blinked, eyes wide, and leaned backwards in his chair involuntarily.

"You still. Never. Told. Me. After everything. Fucking everything, Sherlock. I fucking buried you. Stood at your funeral. I went to your grave every fucking day." He was shaking. His vision was blurred with tears that would not fall. They never fell. He wanted to scream, throw things, and punch the shit out of Sherlock. But military discipline kept him from doing any of this. Instead, he stood there seething.

"My life has been miserable ever since that day. I didn't build anything. I have a girlfriend I don't deserve; we don't sleep in the same fucking room. And do you know why? Because almost every night, I sit in the middle of the bed with my gun in my hand, and I consider pulling the trigger. I had to go back to therapy, my limp came back. Nothing helped. I regressed so hard after this. My PTSD came back in full force. I've had nightmares about that fall practically every night. I've been fucking suicidal for two years, Sherlock. I've been mourning you every single goddamn day, and then I come to find out you've been running around countries, putting yourself at risk, getting every single FUCKING text message I thought I was sending to a dead man."

John shook his head.

"John…" Sherlock whispered, leaning forward slightly. Shutting his eyes tightly, John's hand shot up to silence him. He didn't want to hear him say anything. He was done hearing Sherlock talk for now. He couldn't do it anymore.

"I'm leaving," he said, moving Sherlock's coat to pick up his own. "I'm going home. I'm going to bed. I'm going to think about everything you've told me, and you are NOT going to text me. Okay, Sherlock? Don't."

Hesitantly, Sherlock nodded. He didn't want it to end here. But it was ending. For good? He honestly didn't know. He didn't read emotion, and John was harder to read than most in some cases. He watched as John moved away from the table and took a few steps towards the door. He stopped, though, and turned to look back at him. Sherlock's heart skipped.

"Thank you for telling me," he said, softer now. Anger and pain still evident in his eyes and voice. But controlled. "I'm not saying… I'm not saying this is it. I just… I need to go, okay Sherlock?"

Sherlock just nodded. John nodded back, and there was something else in his eyes. Something… Compassion? He wasn't sure. But Sherlock continued to sit there as his former flat mate turned and walked out of Angelo's. He followed him as he shrugged on his jacket, shoving the hands in his pockets, and walked off down the street. Angelo walked over with another water, both of which he ignored. He sat there, staring out of the window, going over every possible outcome.

He was unable to predict what would happen next. It made him uneasy. He sighed uncomfortably.

"John…"


	12. Chapter 12

**A thousand apologies for the delay. Life gets overwhelming and leaves little room for stuff I actually _want_ to do, blah.**

* * *

"So it's true. The genius detective, Sherlock Holmes, faked his death. He is very much alive and with us, back in London, and apparently, back at work."

John was silent as the news programme played in the background. He was sitting at his desk, reading through a medical journal. The mention of Sherlock's name made his shoulders tense up, but he made no other motion to move.

So it was out. He'd come back then. And from the sounds behind him, they'd done an official press release, which they were showing now. Greg was there, fielding questions.

"John?" came Mary's voice, tentative. This caused him to finally look up from the text so he could glance at her. Her eyes were plastered on the tv screen.

"Hmmm?" he hummed questioningly when she didn't move or say anything else.

"Isn't that… your old flatmate? The one who killed himself?" She sounded nervous. John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Yeah."

"Did you…know?"

"Yeah."

At this, she turned her head to look at him. The look in her eyes was difficult to decipher. He caught glimpses of confusion and concern, but there was something else. They looked at each other for a few moments before John finally brought himself to look at the screen. Greg, Sally, and Sherlock were all standing around a podium. Greg was handling most of the press, even though a lot of questions were directed at Sherlock. The look on his face was one of sheer and utter boredom, and there were times when his mouth opened that John just knew he was about to make some ridiculously smart ass comment, but Greg interrupted him before he could. A chuckle escaped him that he wasn't prepared for. Of course he looked like that. The prick.

"Are you okay?" Mary was right beside him now, making him jump in his chair. He hadn't heard her walk closer to him. He turned back forward in his desk, fingering the edge of his page absentmindedly.

"I don't know," he admitted. He was too emotionally exhausted to lie. It had been another week since their encounter at Angelo's, and surprisingly, Sherlock had done exactly as requested. He hadn't texted or called once. It was clear he was back on cases now, and they were probably forced to do this press release before Greg could bring back onto crime scenes.

Back on crime scenes… without him. That settled inside of him in an unhappy way, and he didn't like it. He was pissed off at Sherlock, why on Earth was he jealous that they weren't on crime scenes together? He ran a hand through his hair and shut the journal, having completely forgotten what he was reading, and pushed it away from him with a sigh. Mary was still there. Still looking at him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice firm. She had a hand on her hips. John sighed again. He was too emotionally exhausted to deal with this. He needed to, and he felt bad for not having said anything to Mary about it. He was still having such a hard time figuring everything out himself and getting his emotions sorted, so how could he honestly have expected to have a normal conversation about it with her?

"I don't know, Mary. I just… It's been a real shock to the system. I've had a hard time thinking about it myself, let alone talking to anyone about it. I just… I don't know."

Broken record. John felt like everything in his life was a broken record now. Mary raised her eyebrow, as if knowing he wasn't telling her everything. He supposed he wasn't. Again, though, he had no idea where to start. He knew that a lot of the emotions that were swirling through him were bizarre enough emotions to someone you were close to. A few dreams had started to resurface amidst the nightmares; dreams he hadn't had since before The Fall. Dreams involving him and his flatmate, in the most bizarre of positions, specifically speaking. Was Sherlock coming back what caused these dreams to come back?

Those dreams succeeded in pissing John off more than the fact that Sherlock was in fact back in Baker Street again. Why on Earth, now that the damn man had swept back into daily life, did his subconscious think it was a good idea of imagine the two of them sharing a bed? _Intimately_ sharing, at that. Even the mere thought of it now stirred the most random of feelings deep inside his gut, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.

Holding his head in his hands, John stared off into nothing with a frown. Finally, after a few more moments of silence, Mary sighed and went back to what she was doing before (and what that was, he really had no idea), leaving him to his whirlwind of thoughts once more.

* * *

Sherlock sighed, eyes running back and fourth across the dead body lying in the road. Broken nose, bruises all over body, obvious signs of struggle. A peculiar scuff on his shoes. Mud and blood along bottom of his pants. Buttons ripped off shirt. Obvious signs of struggle. A single knife wound to the chest was the killing blow. The man was an alcoholic, and had no possessions on him. The area around his mouth stunk of alcohol, so he'd clearly been drinking just before his death. He turned to regard DI Lestrade with a genuine lack of amusement.

"Simple mugging," he stated flatly. "Absolutely boring. Why you needed me I can't quite fathom."

Lestrade chuckled, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile he was so good at. Sherlock's eyes slanted even more.

"And here I thought you'd appreciate getting back into things. Sorry I don't have any fascinating serial killers for you right now. It's been uneventful recently, can't help that." He shrugged nonchalantly as they walked away from the body, letting forensics come in and do their job. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, sticking one in between his lips and lighting up. He was met with a raised eyebrow. "When did you start smoking again?"

"And when did you start sleeping with my brother?" he retorted in irritation. Lestrade's arrays of emotional reactions were to be expected. Mouth dropped, face got red, and he glanced away with a huff before regarding him again.

"I doubt that's really any of your business, honestly. Talk to Mycroft if you want details, because I won't provide them."

"Serious, then," Sherlock remarked. That much was obvious. Lestrade was being protective over the subject, which meant he cared about what was going on between him and Mycroft more than casual sexual encounters. Interesting. This was why Sherlock despised communication being restricted solely to texting and occasional phone conversations. Had he seen his brother in person, he would've been able to pinpoint exactly when this change of lifestyle had taken place.

He'd never admit it, but he was plagued more with jealousy than irritation on the subject. He couldn't fathom how Mycroft had gotten into a stable relationship, and here he was… He grimaced. He never cared about relationships. He especially didn't care about the fact that he wasn't in one. People that felt they HAD to be in relationships were ridiculously irritating. Now, though, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he had a desire to be closer to John. John… The man he couldn't stop thinking about, who wouldn't even talk to him right now. Sherlock had no idea what to expect. He had a feeling this was how his coming back would be handled, and he expected the anger and hostility, and even a little bit of the silence. But would the silence ever break? Would John ever come back to Baker Street again, come back to _him_ again?

"John's not here," Lestrade commented after a moment of silence. Sherlock took a long drag from his smoke and rolled his eyes with a sigh.

"Your powers of observation have gotten no better since I left."

"Ha ha Sherlock. So things aren't going so well?"

"You could say that." Sherlock felt weird talking about it. Lestrade was here with John through everything; he had a better grasp on what all had happened after. How could he talk to the DI about any of this? How could he talk to _anyone_ about it?

"It's an adjustment," the DI continued. "You have no idea just how hard everything hit him, Sherlock. He was a mess. He never stopped being a mess. He sort of became a bit of a zombie, going day by day, but not really doing anything."

"But Mary." It was a statement. Not a question. Something inside of him felt weird when it came to the woman's name.

"They've been together for a while, and not really gotten close. I've noticed. He spends most of his time alone or out with me, honestly. I have no idea what kind of relationship they have, because I've not really seen them together, but he's so detached from everything else in his life. Unfortunately, she's not much different. I hate to say it, but I'm surprised they're still together."

There seemed to be something underneath those words. From the way the DI was talking hinted at it. Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, though, and it was frustrating. His pride kept him from requesting something more elaborate, however.

"He told me not to text him," he finally said. "At all. About anything. That was a week ago. I haven't seen or heard anything from him since last week."

"Makes sense," Lestrade nodded. "He needs time away to sort himself out. Be patient. I'd say, though, that you could start texting him again soon. Here and there. You've really been quiet for a whole week?"

Sherlock glared at him, taking another drag of his cigarette. He flicked the butt onto the pavement and stubbed it out with his shoe.

"Yes, Lestrade, I have. He told me not to text and I haven't texted."

"So start texting again."

A pause.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. Lestrade nodded.

"Yeah. It's been a whole week and you've done what he asked. Start talking to him again, slowly. Don't bombard him. But ask him to the next crime scene. See what he's doing. A little bit here and there, maybe to help him warm back up to the idea of everything. Of you being back."

Even when they had lived together, Sherlock hardly ever texted John casually. He didn't quite know how to start now. Sure, asking him to a crime scene would be easy. But apart from that, what?

"Perhaps…" he drawled slowly, skeptically. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned to leave. "Thank you, Lestrade."

The DI blinked at those words, watching the detective walk away, but smiled slightly before turning back to the crime scene to wrap things up so he could get home to the British government.

* * *

They started simple. The texts were few and far between, but they started happening. One night, as John lay down to try and get some sleep, his phone lit up on the nightstand next to him. Curiously, he rolled over onto his side and grabbed it.

'_Good night, John. –SH'_

John didn't respond. He didn't quite know how. He did, however, find himself siting there staring at the words on his small, bright screen, brow furrowed and hands frozen.

They were infrequent at first. The same three words, sent around the same time each night, every three of four days. Slowly, they began to appear more often. They increased to every other day, and by three weeks in, John was receiving these texts every night. He wasn't sure what Sherlock's point of them was. To remind John he was alive? To tell him that he still wanted to communicate? John wasn't sure. All he knew was that it got to the point where he found himself expecting the texts. He didn't quite know what that meant.

It finally started to dawn on him one night at dinner. He was out at a simple restaurant with Mary and one of her work friends, not at all paying attention to whatever the two women were talking and laughing about. He picked at his food half-heartedly, before feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. Arching an eyebrow, he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it under the table.

'_Crime scene tonight. Tricky one, rather exciting. Your presence would be appreciated. Will you come? -SH'_

His heart skipped a beat and he found himself just staring at it. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. And yet…

"John?" Mary was asking, finally pulling him back into the now. He blinked, before glancing at her apologetically.

"Mary. Sorry. Something came up, I'll see you back home later?" he asked, starting to stand and reach for his jacket. Mary looked as if she was about to stand as well.

"Is everything alright?" she asked. John nodded as he tugged his arm through his jacket sleeve.

"Everything's fine, don't worry. I'll see you at home." He turned to her friend and nodded, excusing himself, before walking swiftly out onto the street, where he started to hail for a cab with one hand and pull his phone out to respond with his other.

'_Address? -JW'_


End file.
